Breaking the Silence
by MandaPanda2
Summary: Gregory makes good on his threat to send Olivia away, where she begins therapy with an unorthodox psychiatrist. (Crossover.)
1. Not Yourself

Disclaimer: All Sunset Beach characters (unless otherwise specified) belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes. All Hannibal series characters (unless otherwise specified) belong to Thomas Harris, St. Martin's Press, Dell Publishing, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.  
Rating: PG 14  
Genre: Drama  
Spoilers: All Sunset Beach episodes up to and including #40. All four Hannibal novels are fair game, but major spoilers for _Hannibal_.  
Summary: Gregory makes good on his threat to send Olivia away, where she begins therapy with an unorthodox psychiatrist.

* * *

Chapter One: "Not Yourself"

_Late Sunday evening_

To begin with, Gregory was hot. The heat slithered around him, coiling to a painful noose around his neck. The air was spicy, perfumed with an undecipherable scent that greeted him the moment he stepped off the private plane. He could feel it suffocating him still, reaching out with heavy hands that pressed into him. With a grimace, he followed the doctor through the doors. The tile swallowed his footsteps, echoing in the vast expanse of the courtyard. A pitiful breeze wavered, one that barely stirred the palm frond.

"Mr. Richards? This way."

He pushed through the door, following the doctor down the long hall. Exhaustion burned his eyes, a blessing from the fifteen-hour flight and the countless papers that had been thrust upon him. The hall was dim and cloaked in an unnatural silence as he followed the doctor into the bowels of the private hospital. Into the depths of hell, he thought to himself as he spied a closed door at the end of the hall.

Dr. Hammond's hand grazed the handle as he turned back to Gregory. "We had to sedate her again," he explained softly as he pushed open the door.

Shadows and moonlight filled the room as a nurse stood from a chair by the bed. A large window was opposite the door, affording any watcher a generous view of the Rio de la Plata. Thousands of stars glittered in the dark, silent witnesses to nightly escapades. A large bed sat forlornly nearby, swallowing its inhabitant. The space between Gregory and the bed diminished, his knee brushing the mattress as he looked down. "Why?"

The doctor sighed, standing next to Gregory as they looked down at the bed. "She became hysterical when she woke up." He reached down and pushed up the sleeve covering Olivia's left arm. "She ripped the I.V. out of her arm." He turned her arm to the moonlight and looked up when the breath caught in Gregory's throat. "It will bruise for several days," he explained quietly as he stepped back from the bed. He gestured for the nurse and they left the room quietly, closing the door behind them.

Gregory sank to the mattress, cradling her arm in his hands as if it was a wounded animal. The angry red bruise was a stain on her smooth flesh, an intense counterpoint that was impossible to miss. He tore his eyes away and allowed himself a glance at her face. It was still, slightly turned to the window as she breathed deep. He sighed and looked down, unable to hold her gaze even when her eyes were not awake to pierce him.

The moonlight was just right, playing on her face the way it did the night he met her. He closed his eyes, sighing deeply as the image of her waltzed through his mind. Her smile had intrigued him and her eyes had seemed more luminous in the moonlight than anything he had ever known before. When she had moved toward him that first time, it was as if the heavens parted and a paradise descended to Earth.

Night blooming jasmine whispered on the air from the open window and he opened his eyes slowly, the Olivia in his memory merging with the Olivia before him. With a caution that sang of regret, he lowered her arm to the bed and smoothed the silk over it. Her lips parted, a mournful sigh filling the space between them as he froze next to her. Her chest swelled, filling to capacity before the breath rushed from her lungs with a purpose.

He leaned forward, brushing the hair from her face. His fingers curled against her cheek, the cool flesh giving him pause. He swallowed hard, his mouth brushing against hers with a feather touch. "It didn't have to be this way," he whispered, looking into her closed eyes. "It didn't."

* * *

_Earlier that day_

"Mr. Richards, did I lose you?"

Gregory leaned back in his chair and glanced down at his hand. "No, Dr. Hammond. I'm still here."

The doctor's voice crackled out of the handset and he closed his eyes. "You do realize, of course, that once we set these plans into motion, there is no going back."

He nodded, gripping the handset. There could be no second guessing. There could be no doubt. There could be no fear. Yet, that is all that he thought of. Even fear, he realized with a measure of disgust. He sat up, squashing the sick feeling that rose in his throat. "I understand," he replied softly.

When he opened his eyes, they fell on the picture of Olivia that stood in the corner of the desk. Caitlin had convinced her to sit for the portrait, arguing that a passing grade for her freshman photography class was on the line. He could remember the way Olivia sighed, dropping her briefcase to the tile floor as she followed Caitlin onto the patio.

He reached for the frame, pulling it toward him. Caitlin had relinquished the print to him when her professor was done with it, so delighted with her passing grade that she didn't ask why he wanted it. Olivia was staring straight into the camera, almost as if she dared Caitlin to take the shot. Her lips pursed together, her cheeks rising as she smirked. Smirked at _him_, he realized, to his eternal torment. Golden sunlight swathed her in a delicate embrace and he could have sworn her eyes flashed, timeless in the portrait.

"Mr. Richards?" The doctor's voice was distant, a far away echo as it traversed the trans-continental phone line. "Are you there?"

He set the picture aside, turning away from the beguiling eyes that taunted him. "I am," he murmured as he reached into the desk drawer. The leather covers of the passports slapped against the surface of the desk. "I'll see you tonight."

* * *

Olivia grimaced and covered her mouth as Rose set a plate of food before Sean. She swallowed hard as bile rose in her throat and her stomach turned. With a sharp inhale, she sucked the raw air into her lungs and lowered her face. Her head throbbed, her skull cracking open with the force of a cleaver as her son's fork clinked against the plate.

She flinched and sat back in the high backed chair, drawing the thin silk of her robe around her. Every muscle in her body screamed, aching painfully as she closed her eyes behind the large sunglasses on her face. Her skin crawled and she felt Sean's eyes on her, felt them in the way his fork clattered to the table. She winced, a sharp pain tripping her head as he pushed his chair away from the table and stormed from the room.

Wonderful.

Her head fell into her hands as she leaned forward, sighing heavily. Another morning, another day to be ruined. An unending pit of disgust churned in her stomach and she licked her dry lips. The sun stung her eyes, mocking the sustained repulsion that coursed through her veins. She frowned as a feather touch grazed her shoulder and she looked up slowly. "What?"

Gregory nodded to Rose, who placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her. "Rough night?" he asked, taking the seat that Sean vacated only moments ago.

Rose's receding footsteps echoed in the silence and Olivia shrank back in the chair. "Please," she muttered, brushing the frame of her dark glasses. She looked away, wrapping her arms around herself.

"While you were upstairs _occupying_ yourself last night, I was downstairs reminding George and Valerie of the dinner we had with them."

His voice grated her already sensitive nerves and she flinched, rubbing her ear as she watched him quizzically. "Dinner?" she mumbled.

He sighed, glancing down. "Yes, Olivia." He pushed the cup closer to her, the china warm to his touch. "The night Del was murdered…we spent the evening with Congressman Bellaris and his wife."

She nodded slowly, wrapping her hand around the hot teacup. She blew on the surface gently, a soft gust that rippled the tea. With a sigh of resignation, she sipped it gently and grimaced. "It's bitter," she snapped.

He reached over, ripping the dark sunglasses off her face. "Wake up, Olivia!" he growled as she blinked her eyes furiously. Fury ripped through him, destroying the curse of second thoughts that rocked him moments ago. Her bloodshot eyes looked back at him, pitiful in the morning light. Her porcelain skin was tinged green and he threw the sunglasses aside with a measure of disgust only she could inspire. "Say it: we had dinner with George and Valerie."

Her face wrinkled and she looked away, taking a plentiful sip of the hot tea. "I'm not worried about anything," she said softly. She smirked into the cup as he sucked in his breath, irritated. "I didn't do anything wrong." She glanced at him sideways, her eyebrow arched. "_You're_ the one so desperate for an alibi."

His fingers drummed the table, solid beneath his fingertips as his mouth tightened. She turned to him, no doubt pleased with herself as her triumphant smirk attested. His breath was a shallow whisper in the tense silence until she whispered: "I wonder why."

He cocked his head. "Do you?" Her eyes flickered and he leaned in, grasping her wrist. It was cool to the touch and it trembled within his hand. "Wonder?" he clarified. She watched him carefully now, sensing the value of his question as his eyes darkened. She raised the teacup to her lips as he continued, "I wonder what Caitlin saw last night that upset her so much."

There was a spasm in within his hand and he tightened his grasp as her eyes narrowed. "Rather, _who_ she saw you with." Her throat worked as she took the last steadying sip of tea and pushed the cup away. "Del's dead, but we could always go through the usual suspects."

Her nails dug into his hand, twisting into his flesh as she hissed, "Green was never your color."

He grabbed her wrist, wrenching it free as he dragged her closer to him. "You've made it mine. You're my cross to bear."

Olivia's face contorted, struggling against the iron around her hand. "Bear? Bear!" He stood, pulling her up and to him. "You haven't bothered to bear with anything in your life." Her eyes blazed and she leaned against him, her chest flush against him. "Your patience isn't unending, remember?"

He smirked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "So, you do remember last night?" Her face melted and hateful eyes glared back at him as he chuckled. More of her weight rested against him and he tightened his grip. "Fear does funny things to a person. It makes you forget. But that was no nightmare last night."

Her mouth twitched as she blinked and shook her head. Her head swam and she sighed as she murmured, "You're sadistic."

He clucked his tongue as she gripped the lapels of his suit. "I get no pleasure from this," he said softly as she hung her head. He nudged her face up, cupping her chin. Her mouth worked as she blinked rapidly, her eyes darkening. "Olivia?"

She sighed, her chest heaving as she looked away. "I- I don't…" Her breath ran shallow as she met his eyes. "Grego-"

Gregory caught her as she slumped against him, holding her tight as he swung her into his arms. Her head fell against his shoulder, her dark hair spilling over his arm as he carried her out of the dining room. She fit perfectly in his arms, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. It had taken years, but he had perfected the act of carrying his semi-conscious wife to a near art.

He lowered her to the sofa and she looked up at him with heavy eyes. Her chest heaved and she gasped as a weightless fog enveloped her. Her vision swam, multiple Gregory's blurring together and then apart as her mind began to dim. "Gre- wh-" she mumbled, her voice thick as his intense stare became the last thing she saw before she succumbed to darkness.

He grabbed the quilt from the back of the sofa and tucked it gently around her. He sighed tiredly and took her hand. "Why?" he asked, imagining the question that died on her lips. "You're not yourself, that's why." His thumb grazed her knuckle, caressing it gently. His voice was a whisper, barely audible in the hushed silence. "You're not yourself and I-" he faltered, gripping her hand. He shook his head as the truth rose in his throat. "I want you back."


	2. The Splendour

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 2: "The Splendour"

Silence.

Deliciously eternal silence.

It was in this hallowed quiet that Dr. Alexander Galen woke. His eyes opened, unblinking in the soft light. The sheer curtains filtered the sunlight to odd shapes that played on the wall. His eyes glowed unnaturally red in the shadows as he sat up slowly, pushing the bed linens back.

The silk pajamas whistled as he stood, rising from the bed with the triumphant grace of a phoenix. Behind him, in the bed, his paramour sighed in her sleep and shrank deeper beneath the sheets. He tilted his head, admiring the way the sunlight reflected on her platinum tresses. Her neck was a graceful arch of cream that lay against the merlot silk and he stood still. Into the memory palace he tucked her, nestled into the vast wing that he reserved exclusively for her.

Dr. Galen rotated slowly, the gold panels glowing against the interloping sun. He would have enjoyed spending a moment in the revered halls, fully indulging himself in the essence of her. Regardless, a trace of memory whispered to him and his nostrils flared, surrendering wholly. Burning wood in the cold, the crunch of leaves beneath her feet as she conquered the trail that hugged the Shenandoah. From the brush, she emerged victorious, her red hair streaming behind her like a ribbon. His little Starling, a warrior.

He smiled, a sight that would frighten most, as he crossed the room to her side of the bed. Bending to her, his teeth gleamed, small and feral as he bared them. He brushed her hair back, surrendering the soft flesh of her neck to him. Just as he preferred it. His lips brushed against her intimately and she shifted beneath him.

Few would believe the Monster to be unrestrained in a room with another life. Even fewer would fathom that the other life would surrender herself to him of her own volition. But to dance with the Monster is to know him…and know him she did.

Her eyes opened gently, turning up to him as her hand reached for his face. She drew him closer, stretching languidly in her cocoon of Japanese silk. She murmured, low in the silence as his mouth moved across her flesh. Her voice enveloped him, words rolling off her lips with more emotion and wonder than a Bach concerto.

She leaned back into the feather pillow as tongue and teeth dipped into the hollow of her throat. Her blue eyes glistened as she gripped the back of his head. A moan sang low in her throat and her lips parted, whispering the name that consumed her for over a decade: "Hannibal."

Dr. Galen looked up slowly, his eyes darkening. He reached out, tracing the lace décolletage with the tip of his finger. By any other name, he thought as his hand dropped to her abdomen. "Clarice?"

A wicked smirk curled her lips, shifting her face as she combed through his dark hair. Her back arched as she drew him in, wrapping her arm around him. He slid over her, pressing against her as she nipped at his neck. The sheets were kicked to the wayside, rolling to the polished wood floor as he wedged his leg between hers.

To the high society of Buenos Aires, they were Dr. and Mrs. Alexander Galen, patrons of opera, music, art and fine dining. To the rest of the world, they were Dr. Hannibal Lecter and former Special Agent Clarice Starling. A depraved serial killer and a disgraced federal agent. Fugitives from the law. Miscarriages of justice

And, for the last three years, zealous lovers.

* * *

The French doors clicked open and Caitlin jumped, rubbing her eyes awake. Soft laughter disturbed the early morning silence as a pair of teenagers trooped into the dark living room. She sat up, swallowing back a yawn as she tied her hair back. "Sean?"

They were silhouetted against the dawn and a dark figure reached for the light. It sprang to life, bathing the living room in pale golden light. Her younger brother grinned earnestly, his hand latched onto Tiffany's. "Hey, Cait. What's up?"

She stood slowly, sighing heavily. "Where have you been? You've been gone since yesterday."

He glanced at Tiffany, her eyes wide as she shrank away from Caitlin. "Around. Why?"

Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. "It's personal," she whispered, looking down at the floor. She hung her head, hearing Sean whispering to Tiffany. Footsteps trailed away and she looked up when the patio door closed again. "We need to talk."

He eyed her warily as he sank down to the sofa. "What's wrong?"

She sat next to him, leaning against the back of sofa. The leather cushion molded to her body and her breath shook. "Mom and Daddy aren't here."

He cocked his head. "Wow, Cait. Stop the presses: our parents aren't home." He leaned back, propping his long legs on the coffee table. "Where did they go?" He chuckled, folding his arms behind his head. "The party wasn't that bad."

Discomfort rippled across her face, the way a pebble disturbed the quiet water of a pond. "Sean, stop." He looked over sharply as she continued, "It's Mom. She's sick."

He sat up slowly, turning to her. "What are you talking about?" He paled and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "She can't be sick. I saw her yesterday at breakfast!"

She twisted her hands, fingering the thin bracelet around her wrist. "Daddy took her to a private hospital and-"

Sean leaned forward with a laugh that segued into a tortured groan. "A private hospital?" he scoffed into his hands. "Come on, Cait!" He met her eyes and shook his head. "She's in rehab, right?"

Caitlin sat up, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivered. The beachfront mansion seemed even larger and lonelier with only the two of them home. "It all happened so fast," she confessed, closing her heavy eyes. She curled into the corner of the sofa and drew the throw blanket around her. "Daddy left with Mom for the hospital yesterday morning. He said he would call us when he could."

"Call? Why doesn't he just come home?"

"He's staying with Mom."

"At the hospital? He can't do that."

She opened her eyes slowly, peeking up at him. A sick feeling twisted in the pit of her stomach as she whispered, "He's staying in Buenos Aires until Mom can come home."

"_Buenos Aires_?"

The sofa rocked as he jumped up. "Sean," she began, sitting up.

"Am I the only one that thinks all of this is completely wrong?" He sighed incredulously, his shoulders falling as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts. "He took Mom out of the country? Argentina is the _only_ place that has hospitals that can help her?"

She shrugged. "You know Daddy. He only wants the best."

"Yeah," he said ruefully. "And nothing but the best."

* * *

_Olivia jumped awake, wrenching out of a dreamless sleep. Warm wood was beneath her and the scent of the ocean was around her. She leaned up, narrowing her eyes. Blinding white sunlight surrounded her, reflecting off the water. The boat was rocking, water lapping against the hull of the majestic sailboat. _

"_You're awake."_

_She rolled over, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked up. "I didn't know that I was sleeping."_

_Gregory chuckled, stretching out next to her on the deck. He reached for her stomach, trailing lazy designs across her flesh. "Wore you out?" he asked softly, splaying his palm flat._

_She giggled, throwing her arms behind her as she turned her face to the sun. "Oh, you'd love that."_

_He leaned over her, his hand dropping to her hip. "What can I say? We're newlyweds." It was a steady path south to her thigh, her flesh warm to the touch. She looked up at him, blinking against the haze as droplets of water in his dark hair glistened. The air was heavy around them, oppressive in the sweltering heat. Her hip arched closer to him as his hand followed the curve of her thigh. _

"_How do you know I didn't wear you out?" she murmured, drawing an amused sigh from him._

_He withdrew his hand, bringing a soft moan to her lips. A warm breeze washed over them, stirring her long hair. It billowed around her head, dancing on the air as she rolled against him. Their chests pressed together, warm flesh against warm flesh. "Hmm?" she asked._

_He smiled, the strong sunlight filling the space around them. She pressed her hand into his chest and over his heart as their lips met. He drew her closer, enveloping her as she nibbled at his mouth and chin. He rolled over, pinning her beneath him and gripping her wrists on either side of her head. Her eyes flashed azure, drawing strength from the calm sea and clear sky. His lips parted as his eyes moved over her, from her moist lips to her heaving chest. Lust burned deep as he leaned against her, drawn to the flesh of her neck. The breath caught in her throat as his tongue darted out and she closed her eyes, sighing as he conquered her. She was the lamb, laid at the altar for sacrifice._

_And nothing could have excited her more._

"Mrs. Richards?"

Olivia opened her eyes, finding herself not on the deck of the _Splendour_, but in that room. _That_ room, whose luxurious décor and antique furnishings could not belie what it really was: a mental hospital. Her throat ran dry and her lips cracked as they curled into a wry smirk. _He's done it_, she thought, leaning back against the silk upholstery. _He's finally done it_.

She sighed, gazing out the wide window with feigned interest. Outside, a warm breeze stirred the wide palm frond, causing the sunlight to dance across the floor. A shadow slithered across the wood floor, moving over the intricate design of the planks as footsteps receded from the room. Below her, pebbled walkways wound through an intricate garden. Passion flowers mixed with hyacinth, coming together in a symphonic perfume. Wild clematis grew up the trunks of leafy trees, the canopy providing ample shade for the wrought iron benches at the base. The emerald grass flattened under the breeze and her toes curled, imagining the way it would feel against her bare feet. Towering privets lined the garden and beyond them, the Rio de la Plata stretched endless. It gleamed silver in the South American sun, living up to its name.

A phantom chill swept through the room, causing her to shiver. Her flesh rose to goose pimples and she closed her eyes, remembering the way the sun felt when she stood on the deck of the _Splendour_. Gregory's arms around her waist, holding her to him as his lips found the nape of her neck. The breeze in her hair and kissing her sun drenched flesh as the sails billowed behind them.

"Mrs. Richards."

An accusation rather than a question. The metallic voice washed through the silence with the precision of a Swiss timepiece. Her robe whispered against the armchair, silk against silk as she straightened her back to him. Her mouth screwed, disappearing into a tight thin line as she grasped her hands in her lap.

"My name is Dr. Galen. May I speak with you?"

Outside the window, a small bird flittered by, the red of its wings catching in the sun. Envy rose in her throat, watching as the bird hopped freely between the branches of a silk cotton tree. Until today, she had never felt such an unquenchable thirst for that which had brought peasants to arms and founded nations: freedom. Her nails dug into her palms, angry red crescents imprinting in her flesh as he continued, "I shall not enter unless you permit me."

The voice was oddly clipped, inflated nuance infused with every syllable. He was behind her, an admirable fifteen feet away, and yet his voice whispered in her ear as if he stood next to her. She flinched as his words tickled her flesh, stirring the wisps of dark hair that curled around her ear lobe. "Mrs. Richards?"

A phantom hook latched around her waist, pulling her around. Her middle flipped as she turned slowly, turning her eyes up to meet the doctor's. A small man stood in the doorway, a striking counter to the quiet intensity of his voice. His unwavering stare bridged the distance between them, drawing her closer. The utter stillness of his frame gave her pause, seemingly testing the boundaries of human endurance. The crisp lines of his dark suit broke to a tailored finish as his arms lay serenely at his side.

She swallowed hard, fidgeting beneath the weight of his stare. A low hum filled her ears, a dull accompaniment to the sound of pounding blood. Her chest tightened and she gripped the arm of the chair, digging her fingers into the imported upholstery. Unease pulsed through her as his stare grew in devotion and she drew the thin robe tighter around her. Clasping the lapels together, her neck snapped forward, a silent decree of entry.

He crossed the threshold, taking no more than three steps before the stopped. With a slowness that would irritate most, he glanced around the room, seemingly admiring the carefully chosen décor. Dark eyes moved over every surface, finally resting on her. The breath ran shallow in her throat as her blue eyes matched his, maroon pinpoints reflected in his irises. A shiver raced down her spine and her stomach twisted as he asked softly, "How do you feel this morning, Mrs. Richards?"

An underlying hiss added a serpentine sonance to his question as ice dripped down her throat and into her stomach. His eyes were unwavering and he tilted his head, waiting. His face was unreadable, a blank canvas that stretched from frame to frame. The ball rolled into her court, echoing in the silence. With a slowness that could almost be called vindictive, she turned her back to him. She pursed her lips as her gaze settled on the liquid silver of the grand river. His tongue clicked a trio, a barely audible sound that brought a contented smirk to her face.

"You must be quite tired, so I'll leave you now," Dr. Galen said and she gripped her hands together as she heard him walk out of the room. "I shall see you later- this afternoon- after you've rested."

The door closed quietly and a sigh graced Olivia's lips. She didn't want to see anyone and she didn't want to talk with a doctor. Certainly not any doctor on Gregory's payroll. She scoffed to herself, thinking of how pleased her husband must be now that he had done what he'd been threatening. Her eyes fell and a slight quiver of her chin distorted her face. She thought of Gregory, triumphantly returning home to Sunset Beach, sans wife. Just what he always wanted.

Her chin quivered as she curled up in the arm chair, drawing her legs beneath her. Her stomach twisted as a block of fear settled in the recess of her stomach and her hand trembled. He could still birth fear in her soul. "I can destroy you," he said. Was that just last night? The day before? She shook her head, brushing a tear from her eye. It didn't matter. He had won.

He always did.


	3. Heart

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 3: "Heart"

"_I shall see you later- this afternoon- after you've rested."_

But he hadn't.

Instead, Olivia had curled up in the bed, drawing her knees against her chest. The bed linens fluttered down, draping over her head with a carefree ease she envied. Still, the sunlight burned through the fibers of the Egyptian cotton, ever taunting her. Eventually, the day burned out to nightfall, cool and silver. And then she was truly alone. The world went quiet, the halls outside her room dulling to a hush.

Two miserable days and it already became _her_ room.

She threw the covers back, cool air gracing her face as she stared up at the distant ceiling. It was daylight again, she realized as she watched the early morning sun creep across the meticulous paint job. She breathed deep and closed her eyes, not that those simple actions could bring any measure of calm. Thoughts had swirled in her head earlier, twisting and turning in a tormented vortex. Why? For how long? What did he tell the children? What for? But the one question most of all: how could he?

And now, there was nothing. The questions that had fueled her first forty-eight hours of depressed hysteria had faded to the wayside. All she was left with was emptiness. It was a hollow feeling that weighed down her insides, corroding her innards and turning them to dust.

With an energy she didn't know she had, she pushed herself up and blinked sleepily. Her eyes burned in her sockets, exhausted from the tortured sleep that she let claim her. The sheets fell away from her as she stood, rising from the bed that had been her cocoon since she arrived. The wood floor chilled her feet and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Her eyes narrowed and she turned her back on the window, the beauty of the sun-stained river holding no appeal. An ornate mirror hung from the wall, the gilt finish glowing blissfully in the sunrise. A stranger appeared in the reflection, gazing back at her. She neared the looking glass, her head cocked in thought as she watched the reflection. Dark hair hung limply over the shoulders, shiny with unwash. A pallor complexion gave way to dull eyes, swollen and bloodshot.

Olivia looked up at the mirror, appraising it the way she would a piece of art in a gallery. Like art, it was either hit or miss. The mirror was a decided miss. She walked away, moving through the spacious bedroom suite with a cautious step. Her hand skimmed the marble surface of the vanity and she shrank away from the mirror there too. She could see the reality of her life as clear as crystal. She didn't need the clarity of a mirror.

She waltzed back to the bed, one leg poised to climb back in when a cautious knock disturbed the silence. She looked over her shoulder, frozen as another knock echoed throughout the room. Her mind raced to the doctor, whose haunting eyes made her shiver and whose penetrating stare made her heart stop. She moved slowly, reaching for her robe as her flesh rose to goose pimples.

The door loomed before her as the doctor's promise sang in whispered remembrance. _"I shall not enter unless you permit me."_ Her hand danced over the doorknob and she leaned forward, her forehead touching the strong wood. Her lips moved, silently mouthing the words that struck her when he spoke them. _Unless you permit me_.

Her hand twisted the knob before she realized what was happening. She peered around the edge, gripping the wood as she looked into the hallway. A bouquet of scent greeted her, wafting from beneath covered dishes. She frowned, staring down at the service cart as the orderly explained in heavily accented English, "Breakfast for you."

Her arms fell to her sides and she stepped back as he pushed open the door, wheeling the cart through. The flatware shook against the china, causing a tinkling sound that reminded Olivia of church bells. She watched the orderly set the cart by the window and uncover the plates with a flourish. He nodded cordially and gestured again to the cart. "From the doctor."

He was gone as quickly as he came, closing the door firmly behind him. She looked at the spread, her stomach twisting in starved protest. Plump strawberries caught the rising sun, as did the silver dish they sat in. A plate of fluffy eggs and grilled tomatoes beckoned, a quiet reminder that her last meal had been days ago. The unmistakable scent of coffee tickled her nose, drawing her in. It was another moment before she flew across the room, jumped into the armchair and ravenously jerked the cart to her.

* * *

In a quiet wing of the hospital, as Olivia was digging into the breakfast she didn't even know she wanted, Dr. Lecter dug into her medical records. For the last two days, the voluminous file sat in his lap as he worked through sheet after sheet. It came as no surprise to him that she made no effort to meet him. For her to have met him that first day would have been in sharp contrast to the thick file before him. Countless doctors and psychiatrists had all reached the same conclusion in regards to the patient "Richards, Olivia": she was extremely uncooperative.

Dr. Lecter rifled through her psychiatric history, compiled by the few psychiatrists she had surrendered to over the last twenty years. None had managed to keep her as a patient for more than several sessions. And, none had done more than label her a bored housewife before closing the books on her. He placed their opinions aside, believing none of them crucial to breaking into the clearly tortured psyche of Olivia. Instead, he delved into her medical history.

A person's medical history was the polar opposite of their psychiatric history. Whereas their psychiatric history was subjective, tainted with the opinions of a doctor who ran the chance of being too indoctrinated by the Establishment, a medical history could only deal with facts. Dr. Lecter believed in medical histories with every fiber of his being. They did not lie.

He thumbed through Olivia's complete medical life, from her entrance into the world in Britain to the days and weeks in a small California hamlet that brought her to him. He discarded the Italian records of the food poisoning she suffered in Florence, though his eyes lit briefly at the mention of the city she spent her honeymoon in. He plunged onward, noting her three pregnancies and the hypertension she experienced with her last two.

Three pregnancies.

He flipped back through the file to the cover sheet that contained only the bare minimum of topical information. His dark eyes raced to the middle of the sheet, to the section of information that leapt out. Two children listed. Three pregnancies, yet only two children. Interesting, he thought as he skimmed her charts.

Dr. Lecter closed the file, tucking the errant sheets into order. He leaned back in the chair, the leather groaning beneath him as he did. Overhead, a ceiling fan with blades that resembled veined leaves helped offset the late summer heat. In all places north of the Equator, March was at the juncture of winter and spring, drenched in rain and cold. But in the South, they were experiencing the height of summer. Strong sun filtered through the clouds, fueling the heat that propelled them all to a South American autumn.

He rested his head back, closing his eyes as he stole away to his memory palace. The walls and ceiling of a new room came together, bare except for the throbbing heart encased in a glass cabinet. It beat soundly, filling the emptiness of the room. The heart was the very soul of Olivia, giving in excess to two of her children. In time, the rest of the room would come together, but for now, the heart would suffice.

From down the hall, he heard the clock strike the hour. The chime pulsed through the wing, bringing a slight vibration to the windows. His eyes opened slowly, glowing through the shadow that ensconced the corner of his office. She was through with breakfast, he knew. The orderly had told him as much after he collected the empty cart from her room. After some gentle prodding, the orderly also revealed that she had changed her clothes.

The good doctor was pleased. Olivia had not refused breakfast and she changed of her own volition. She may not be ready to talk with him, but she was ready to see him.

He rose from the armchair fluidly, the file tucked beneath his arm when the phone on his desk rang. If he was annoyed by the interruption, his face did not show it. He picked up the handset, alternating between hushed words and silence as he listened. "Very well," he said finally. "Send him in."

He sank into the chair behind the desk and placed Olivia's medical file square in the center, where it would be impossible to miss. Urgent footsteps echoed down the hall, growing closer with each step. He picked up the phone, speaking quietly into the handset. "Please arrange for Mrs. Richards to meet me on the terrace in thirty minutes."

Dr. Lecter was hanging up the phone when there was a brief knock and the door flew open. He stood as Gregory Richards stepped into the room, his eyes searching the perimeter as he did. "Mr. Richards."

Gregory met his eyes and the doctor watched him quietly as he nodded. "Where is Dr. Hammond?"

He came around the desk, a deep sigh in his chest as he addressed the husband. "I believe he may be with a patient. The secretary can provide you with that information."

"I was assured that my wife would be under his care," he insisted, glaring at the doctor.

"As a patient of this institution where Dr. Hammond is the director, she is. However, he is not her doctor of record."

The husband looked up at him, stepping close as he stared. Dr. Lecter leaned back against the desk, ignoring the intimidating gaze that no doubt had been perfected over the years. "You are?" he asked quietly.

The doctor simply turned away, walking back around the desk. He placed his palm over the file, the tip of his middle finger sitting just below the tag identifying the patient name. His fingers drummed the surface as he tilted his head and watched Gregory, who was searching the wall behind the desk. The doctor smiled internally and stepped aside. Apparently the husband shared his admiration of facts, he noted as he glanced at the framed diplomas and various accreditations. They were the handiwork of the best forger in Argentina and would stand up extremely well under scrutiny. These would have to do as his rightful and earned diplomas were collecting dust in a federal storage unit at Quantico.

He let Gregory inspect the diplomas and a barely there smile touched his lips when he was apparently satisfied. "With a proper course of rigorous and intensive therapy, your wife-"

"I would like to see her."

Dr. Lecter shook his head and said, "I can not allow that."

Gregory's jaw tightened and his eyes darkened. "I want to make sure that she is alright."

"I assure you, she is as well as can be expected."

Silence.

"When will I be able to see her?" Gregory asked through clenched teeth. "Allan assured me that I would be able to visit her."

"So long as the visits do not cause a setback." He met Gregory's gaze and said clearly, "I will permit a visit when I am sure it will not hinder her therapy."

He watched as Gregory's head went back, barraged with the force of his words. "I'll speak with Allan about this." He eyed the doctor, this small man that stood between him and his wife. He spared him one more glare before he turned on his heel and stormed from the office.

Dr. Lecter looked down and allowed himself the smallest of smirks as he tapped the medical file. It would be something to get both spouses on his sofa.

* * *

There was a breeze outside. You couldn't tell there was one from the window in her room. Olivia stepped onto the terrace, blinking at the strong sun from overhead. The stone slabs glowed beneath the soles of her sandals, soaking up the rays. She inhaled deeply, taking in the perfume from the garden below.

Like a bolt of lightening piercing her flesh, she felt his eyes on her. They sucked her in, pulling her to him like a moth to flame. She turned, watching as the doctor stood and faced her. She slowly crossed the stone terrace, one foot in front of the other.

His gaze was still, enveloping her as she neared him. Her step slowed, the breeze stirring the tendrils that escaped the bundle of hair on her head. Her heart thundered in her chest and she rested her palm over it, feeling the pulse. It was tangible, alive and well. And so was she. At least alive.

She began walking again and reached the doctor, watching him expectantly. He rested his hand on the back of a chair, inviting. With a delicate caution, she lowered herself into the seat, curling back against the sun-warmed cushions. A cool breeze off the river balanced the heat from the sun and she sighed, turning her face up to the sky.

From the next chair, Dr. Lecter watched Olivia from the corner of his eye. Her eyes were closed as she basked in the warmth, no doubt shedding the skin of her first two days in isolation. The terrace was deserted except for them and he ensured it would stay that way.

Olivia stretched in the chair, leaning back further as she gripped the arms. Her mind drifted, lost in the sunny warmth. She reveled in the silence, the familiar sensation of sun on her flesh reminding her of the _Splendour_. A familiar feeling of calm bubbled within her and she couldn't help but smile.

Dr. Lecter looked out at the river and sat back. She couldn't realize that her therapy had already started. It began the moment she stepped out of her room to meet him on this terrace. He reviewed her medical history in his head, particularly her three pregnancies and decided that could wait for now. She had come to him once.

She would again.


	4. Your Better Angels

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 4: "Your Better Angels"

Detective Ricardo Torres glanced around the living room, aware of the watchful eyes trained on him. His turned in a small circle, the imported marble floor launching a whispered complaint against the soles of his plebian shoes. The rich décor, opulent furniture and plush fabric were but a mere testimony to the level of wealth he found himself in.

"I'd be happy to give Ms. Richards a message for you."

He glanced over his shoulder, an amused smirk on his face. "That's alright, Rose. I really don't mind waiting. I can wait all day if I have to." Her mouth tightened and he continued carefully, "If that's alright with you."

Her eyes darkened as she tilted her head. "It makes no difference to me," she sighed, turning on her heel.

The door to the kitchen closed behind her and Ricardo turned back to the living room. Sunlight streamed through spotless patio doors, the sheer curtains held back so that the picture perfect view was on full display. He stood at the door, looking out over the kingdom that Gregory Richards was lord and master of. It was built on the back of countless criminals that he defended, no doubt _successfully_, over the years.

He cleared his throat, looking around the room with great interest. It was just over a month ago that they all stood in this room, his three prime suspects. The absurdity of the video will came back to him and he chuckled at the irony. The daughter, the business partner and the lover all waiting with bated breath, one of them the likely murderer.

"Is something funny?"

Ricardo turned around, meeting Caitlin's cautious blue eyes. "Not quite. Just going over a few things in my head."

She nodded, dropping an armload of books and a leather satchel onto the sofa. "My father says that laughing to yourself is a sign that you're losing touch with reality."

He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. "Well now, that sounds like something a defense attorney might say."

Her eyes narrowed and she watched him for a long moment, not saying a word. "Rose said you've been waiting for me," she said finally, resignation threaded through her words.

He nodded. "Only since I found out that your parents had left the country." He watched her face tense noticeably, then go slack. She gathered her hair and clipped it up, watching him with expectant eyes. "A little romantic getaway, maybe?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

Ricardo sighed internally, realizing she had inherited both of her parents evasiveness. "As a matter of fact, it is. Del's murder investigation-"

"My parents did _not_ kill Del." Her charged declaration hung in the silence and he took a step back. Her chest heaved angrily as she looked away.

"Where did they go, Caitlin?" She exhaled slowly, her hands pressing into the leather sofa as the silence danced between them. "Neither of them were supposed to leave the state, let alone the country."

She turned back slowly, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her eyes. "Have they broken any laws?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?"

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and continued, "If I feel like arresting them."

Caitlin whirled around, her sapphire eyes dark. "You can't just arrest them because you feel like it." She glared harshly and spit out, "You'd be violating the Fourth Amendment."

He grinned earnestly and before he could stop himself, a small chuckle slipped out. "Where did you hear that? Your father?"

"No," she snapped defiantly, resting her hands on her hips, "my Constitutional Law seminar."

He nodded deferentially. "Well done, Counselor. Well done." He sighed and ran his hand tiredly through his hair. "Look, Caitlin, I'll level with you." She arched her eyebrow as he continued, "It's suspicious- both of them fleeing. They shouldn't have done that."

Her shoulders fell in defeat and she sighed. "They didn't flee…from _anything_." She looked up, meeting his eyes as the truth rose in her throat. "My father took my mother to a hospital."

The fine hairs on the back of Ricardo's neck stood at attention and he watched as the young woman sank into the arm chair. "Why?" he asked slowly as his mind raced.

Her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked down as her hands fidgeted nervously in her lap. "I believe almost everyone in this town knows about my mother's problem with alcohol." She scoffed, half-heartedly stabbing the pillow wedged between herself and the chair. "You've arrested her enough times."

He nodded dumbly as his thoughts raced in a thousand different directions. Caitlin would cover for them just like her younger brother. His fingers itched and he shoved them anxiously in his pockets. They fled because they were both guilty. No, he thought as he exhausted the possibilities. They fled because only _one_ of them was guilty. Gregory had gone out of his way to turn the investigation's attention away from his wife. It was only a natural progression that he would now hide her away to avoid her arrest.

"So," he asked, turning back to Caitlin, "after five years of me arresting your mother for D.U.I.'s, your father has now decided to put her in treatment?" Her face wrinkled and her lips parted as he continued, "Isn't that quite a coincidence, especially now that she's a suspect in Del's murder?"

"That's the truth, Detective Torres!" She looked up, eyes wide and pleading. "She- she needs to get better," she said. Her voice shook uncontrollably as her throat worked. Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes and she blinked through them. "My mother…wasn't always like this."

Ricardo sat on the edge of the coffee table and leaned into her. "Caitlin, where did your father take your mother?"

She covered her face, groaning in exasperation. "Argentina." Her fingers parted and he saw her eyes peek through. "What else do you need to know?" she asked, one breath away from a sob.

"The hotel your father's staying at."

"The Four Seasons in Buenos Aires."

He stood slowly, filing the information away. "Please tell him to expect a call from me." The young woman nodded listlessly and leaned back into the chair, turning her face away as he passed. "Are you going to be alright here by yourself?" he asked quietly.

Caitlin's cheeks puffed out as she sighed and he couldn't help but cringe when she finally spoke. Her voice had fallen away to a tortured whisper, a shell of the way it once was. "I'm not a child, Detective Torres." She looked at him with haunted eyes and continued, "I'll be fine."

He spared her one last glance before he turned to the front door. "Detective?" she called out. He looked over his shoulder at her, still sitting dejected in the chair. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. My parents had nothing to do with Del's murder. My father took my mother away to get her better."

He closed the front door quietly and leaned against it as he breathed deep. His skin crawled and he rubbed his hands anxiously together. Dark things were tormenting the family Richards, he thought to himself, and it had a name. Two of them, in fact.

* * *

Dr. Lecter shifted in the chair, a slight creak disturbing the silence. Late afternoon sunlight warmed the sofa and perfumed the office with the rich smell of leather. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring slightly as he watched Olivia. She sat frozen on the sofa, her legs crossed tightly and her hands clamped tightly in her lap. It had been over an hour since she stepped into the office and she hadn't spoken a word since.

For two days, their sessions had continued in this fashion.

He smirked to himself, watching as Olivia burned holes in him with her glare. Her blue eyes skipped around the room, from the frames on the walls to the glass inlay of the table between them. Anywhere but him.

He watched her carefully, tilting his head in thought. Her hands were locked together, her knuckles ice white in the warm afternoon. She radiated defensiveness, pulsing waves that surrounded her like a cocoon. She was alone, removed from all that was familiar and she had yet to break her carefully constructed wall. Then again, after losing everything, it was the wall that was familiar. It was the wall she clung to.

Olivia sighed pointedly, folding her arms against her chest. He sat still, the quiet becoming them. She wanted to flee. He could tell it in the way her eyes darted around, endlessly searching for an exit. Her chest rose anxiously, a testimony to the controlled hysteria waging within her. It was only a matter of time before the fine cracks in her façade grew and imploded.

Better sooner than later, he thought, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Tell me," he began softly, "about the food poisoning you suffered in Florence."

Her eyes flickered to him, surprise belying the ice in her eyes. Her lips parted slightly and he saw a question dancing on them. He watched her eyes wrinkle, the thoughts scattering in her mind. She didn't want to answer, but natural curiosity was nudging her towards him. A beam of sunlight fell through the window, swathing her in a warm embrace. Her eyes narrowed, disappearing into thin slits as she asked, "Is the answer the key to my psyche?"

Her accusatory question hung in the silence, infused with all the defiance she could muster. It had to be admired. "It's never just _one_ key." She glanced at him quickly, suspicion brimming from within her. "Despite how we, as a people, strive for simplicity, we can never be measured by it. It's chaos that defines our lives."

Olivia scoffed just below her breath, shaking her head slightly as she looked away. The window had closed and she was retreating into herself again. One day it would closer permanently and she would be alone for all eternity. "What was it exactly?" he asked softly.

"What was what?" she muttered.

"That made you so ill."

Her eyes rolled, briefly disappearing into her sockets as she turned back to him. "Mushrooms," she sighed. He watched as she fingered her ear lobe, gently kneading the pierced flesh. Her eyes clouded over as she waltzed through her own memories. Her face warmed to a rosy blush and a whimsical smile bloomed on her lips. "It was the wild mushrooms in the risotto."

Dr. Lecter smirked, drawing her from the solitary dark and into the sunshine. "How unfortunate," he said slowly, racing through the memory palace to review the Italian medical records. "The chef at the Palazzo Polinari must have been exiled in disgrace."

She nodded dreamily, hugging her arms to her. "I believe he actually cried when he was dismissed." She chuckled to herself, smoothing a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She met his eyes, a spark dancing in the blue. "Of course, none of it was amusing until after I had stopped vomiting."

He sat back as she sighed, pregnant with reminiscence. She was basking in the sun, her hair dancing on the air as she smiled. Smiled at _him_. It would take some prodding, but in time, she would bloom like an orchid. It would just take time. Luckily, it was on his side.

"I was so sick," she continued, a sigh on her lips. "I was in the bathroom for days, sprawled across the floor."

"Alone?"

"No," she whispered. She closed her eyes as she shook her head, falling slowly through the memory. "No, Gregory-"

She faltered, her voice dying over the last syllable. Her throat worked, rising and falling like a spigot. A storm roared across her face, drowning the rose of her exuberant remembrance. "Your new husband," he said softly.

Her blue eyes flickered nervously to him as her fingers toyed with a sad curl. Dr. Lecter sat quietly, unmoving as she crossed and uncrossed her legs nervously. She nodded, a schizophrenic bob of her head that barely stirred her dark hair. Her eyes flashed and she shivered noticeably in the warm sunbeam. "Was he angry with you?"

Olivia's fingers danced against her engagement ring, the large pear-shaped diamond that covered the better part of her ring finger. "I- I don't-"

"It's not a difficult question." Her eyes flew up, burning into him as he said calmly, "Either he was unhappy with you or he wasn't."

"What does that matter?" she snapped, jumping to her feet.

She lunged for the door, grasping the handle when the ferocity of his words rang out: "I've not yet dismissed you."

She whirled around, frank astonishment spreading across her face. "Dismissed me? DISMISSED ME?" Her voice shrieked through the office, razor thin in the silence. "Who do you think-"

"Sit _down_, Mrs. Richards."

Her mouth gaped silently as her hand fell away from the door handle. With a slowness that tested the bounds of sincerity, she inched away from the door and returned to the sofa. Dr. Lecter watched her sink down to the cushion, her legs drawn together as her hands twitched in her lap. "I apologize for my candor," he said quietly as she shot unhappy daggers at him. She shrugged her shoulders, looking away as he ignored her indifference. "Your demons are drowning out your better angels."

She drew in her breath, a shaky inhalation as she whispered, "Better angels?" Absurd laughter bubbled out of her as she said, "My angels have all fallen from grace."

"That may be so," he agreed as she wiped at her eyes, "but the notion of resurrection has given hope to millions." She scoffed to herself and cleared her throat as he asked again, "Was he angry with you?"

Olivia looked at him with sad watery eyes and shook her head. "He-," she sighed, "he took care of me."

"Did he?" he asked with a carefulness that one might even call gentle.

"Yes," she whispered as her eyes dulled in a faraway look.

_Gregory sinking to the marble floor before he scooped her into his arms. Her face against his chest, shallow breathing echoing in the cathedral bathroom. Shivering when he pressed a cool compress to her face, slumping against him as her stomach turned. _

"Were you afraid," he asked quietly, turning his eyes up to her, "that he would be unhappy with you?"

She looked up, her face clearing in the calm after the storm. A sad smile came to her lips as her eyes softened. "No," she murmured with an echo of resignation. "Gregory's at his best when there's someone to protect."

He stood, his pant legs snapping to a crisp break. He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked slowly around the club chair. "Has he done his best?"

"His best in what?"

"Protecting you."

"He put me _here_," she replied bitterly, as if those four words summed her opinion of Gregory's protection.

His smile barely touched his lips as he cocked his head. "Yes."

The word held, quivering between them as he held her gaze. Her lips parted, a moment's thought skittering on her mouth before she closed it and looked away. He reached for the door, turning the knob and pulling it open. "Thank you, Mrs. Richards." She glanced back in surprise as he walked past her to sit behind his desk.

"Is- is that all?" she sputtered as he turned on the small desk lamp, soft golden light scattering across the leather blotter.

"For now," he replied, not looking up as he reached for a file folder.

Olivia frowned, standing slowly as she moved to the open door. She grasped the door jamb and looked over her shoulder, her frown deepening as his pen scratched across the paper. His small head was lowered, the light gleaming against his dark hair. She inhaled sharply and turned away, closing the door firmly behind her.

Dr. Lecter looked up, her footsteps receding down the hall as he leaned back in the plush leather. He reached for the paper, crumbling the irrelevant musings in his hand. Let her wonder what critical judgment he was passing.

Let her wonder.


	5. An East Hampton Clambake

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 5: "An East Hampton Clambake"

Gregory yanked back the curtains, wincing at the bright sunshine that spilled in through the windows. Outside, the city of Buenos Aires throbbed with life, merry in the South American summer. He leaned against the window, warm in the sun as he looked down. The avenue below was a wide cacophony, thronging with a motley crew of cars and trucks. Fearless mopeds with deft riders zipped past the congestion, darting in and out of the lines of traffic. Watching over all of it was the Obelisk, the point just visible over the tops of the surrounding buildings.

He sighed, the window warming his arm. The lively South American city had a distinctly European flair, one that was thoroughly entrenched in every fiber of it's being. Looking out over it now, an uncanny familiarity swept through him. He shivered, uncomfortable with the feeling as he strove to place it. A giggle of delight rippled in the silence, echoes of yesterday.

"_I love Florence," she sighed happily, her arms going around his neck. Her lips lay even with his ear, a slight tickle as they stepped into the shadows of the loggia. "Firenza…Gregory, ti amo."_

A wistful smile tugged at his lips, filling his chest as the memory of her laughter faded away. Emptiness became his arms, his aching limbs screaming in the tortured solitude. He folded his arms across his chest, inhaling sharply as he turned away from the window. It held nothing for him.

The telephone rang insistently and he stared at it for a long moment before he answered. "Hello?" His grim expression gave way to a soft smile and he found the strength to turn back to the window as he listened. "Caity."

Her voice crackled over the international phone line, distant and hollow. "How's Mom?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She's…she's well."

"Really?"

He nodded, reassuring himself before he could answer his daughter. "Yes, really. It's only been a week, but the doctor is very happy with her progress."

"Th- that's good." He heard her sniffle and clear her throat, a long beat of silence filling the line before she whispered, "She's going to be alright…won't she, Daddy?"

She was five years old again, running into their bed after a nightmare. How many times was he woken from a sound sleep, her small body launching between them? He would hold her until she could sleep again, whispering reassurances in her ear as he rubbed her back. He couldn't do that now. Not for this. Still, he took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, Caity. Mom is going to be alright."

Her smile stretched across the line and he could hear the change in her. "I'm so glad," she exclaimed. "Kiss her for me when you see her."

"I will," he promised. But he hadn't seen her. He gripped the handset, his knuckles cracking and turning ice-white. Not in a week. His jaw tightened, listening as his daughter chattered easily. The doctor's approach bothered him, as did his absolute reluctance to let him see his wife. Allan had proved unhelpful, insisting that Dr. Galen's approach was sensible. _One that I would have followed myself if I was treating your wife. _

"Daddy?"

Her question ripped him from his reverie and he held the phone closer. "I'm sorry, Princess. What were you saying?"

"Detective Torres came by the house. He said that you and Mom shouldn't have left the country." Her voice dropped, whispering conspiratorially into the phone. "He knows that you're in Buenos Aires."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The nosy detective was not a headache he needed at the moment. "It's not a secret where we are. We filed a flight plan and we've registered with the embassy."

"He asked what hotel you were staying at." She paused, apologetic as she continued, "Daddy, I think he might be going down there."

"Well," he murmured, his eyes darkening, "I'll be here."

* * *

Olivia followed the orderly down the hall, her sandals clicking on the tile. She passed through a beam of sunlight, no match for the shiver that swept through her. Goosebumps rose on her arms, the fine hairs on her neck standing on end. She swallowed hard, pausing as the orderly knocked softly on the door before he pushed it open. With a knot of reluctance, she stepped from the protective embrace of the sun and into the office.

The door closed firmly behind her and she flinched, blinking at the dim light. Wood shutters rejected the sun, sealing the office in a dark cocoon and sending shafts of light across the walls. Her breathing came fast, rasping in the silence as she met Dr. Lecter's eyes. He stood in the center of the room, slim and regal as he watched her. "Good morning, Mrs. Richards."

She nodded, her mind reeling as his eyes burned holes through her. The sick feeling of claustrophobia swirled around her, closing in. Her lips moved, curling to form the words that would make up her reply. Her stomach flipped anxiously as his dark eyes flickered over her. "I trust that you've eaten?" he asked, his question soft and clipped.

Olivia found herself nodding, even though this morning's breakfast lay untouched on the cart in her room. His eyes narrowed, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he spared her a long, unforgiving look. "I see."

Dr. Lecter watched her grip the chair, her eyes darting around the room. "It's so dark," she whispered, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

"A necessary bother. The morning sun can make it quite uncomfortable." She cleared her throat and he came around the low coffee table, the thick carpet swallowing his steps. He watched her nod blandly and noticed the puffiness around her eyes. "How did you sleep?"

She shrugged, fingering her earring as she wandered through the shadows. He stepped back, his hands clasped in silence. She was still clinging to the wall, retreating deeper into herself. Her arms went around her slender frame, comforting herself as her eyes moved over the painting on the wall. The contents of his right pocket shifted and he glanced quietly at her sleeveless arms.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, gazing up at canvas. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyebrow arched accusingly. "It's Florence."

He nodded, taking a deliberate step closer to her as she turned back to the wall. "The artist has managed the arduous task of capturing the essence of a Florentine sunset." She nodded, enchanted by the color that made her long for the happy days that she spent in Florence as a new bride. "Does it speak to you?" she heard him ask, his voice sounding very far away.

Swallowing hard, she turned away, pulling her thin shawl around her shoulders. Church bells echoed in her memory, as did the flapping of pigeon wings and the grey of the Uffizi against the pink sky. She heard Gregory chuckle and remembered the way his eyes flashed as he tugged her down to him, pulling the sheet over them. The way his hand swept down her abdomen, cupping her rear as he drew her against him. The way his lips tasted like wine, the robust undertone spurring her on.

Her head flew up, eyes full as she inhaled sharply. She was Alice down the rabbit hole, falling and falling until the tide of memories threatened to overwhelm her. She gasped, drowning in herself as the painting mocked her. "No," she hissed, turning her back on him.

Dr. Lecter took a step closer, amused at the internal war waging within her. Her face ran, her breathing short and quick as she quickly spiraled to the point of no return. He found his pocket, the syringe barely weighing it down. He tapped the vial quickly, standing just behind her as she glared at the painting. Had Olivia turned, she would have been more afraid of the good doctor than the threatening painting.

He plunged the fine needle into the fleshy part of her arm free of her shawl and his mouth set when she barely flinched. Removing it, he dropped it back into his pocket and took a step back. But not before a whiff of her shampoo tickled his nose. French lavender. He inhaled, sealing the scent in his memory palace.

He turned away from Olivia, his eyes downcast as he put the expanse of his office between them. He knew she hadn't he eaten. The drug would work its way through her system with lightening speed. He sat slowly, watching her shudder in the shadow of the painting as he waited.

And then, she would sing.

* * *

Ricardo Torres tapped his foot, a quick staccato as he strained his neck to see. He was still two people from the head of the line, a grain of sand in the crowded international terminal. A roar of languages erupted around him, all fighting for control. He narrowed his eyes and grimaced. He hadn't even left U.S. air space and he was already resenting this trip.

The line moved and he stepped forward, shifting his ancient duffle bag from one hand to the other. He glanced down at his hand, the shockingly new passport crushed in his palm. His first trip out of the country and he was doing it alone. He thought of Paula, left behind and he sighed sadly. One day, he would be able to take her on a trip like this. Some day.

He reached for the side pocket of the duffle, pulling out the thick Douglas file. He flipped it open, re-reading the case file that was already committed to his memory. The words rolled together, stringing along as the chaos of the terminal faded to the wayside. He paused, skimming over the phrase giving him the most trouble: "Victim was shot several times at point-blank range by UNSUB."

He shook his head ruefully, sliding the file back into the pocket. It surprised him. He didn't think Olivia Richards had that kind of ruthlessness in her. Her husband, maybe. But not her.

But what did he know?

He strolled up to the ticket counter, one of the agents finally available. "Good morning," she chirped, taking his passport. "Final destination?"

Ricardo sighed, dropping the duffle at his feet. "Argentina," he replied, finding her perkiness irritating. "Buenos Aires."

* * *

"Tell me about the summer of 1979."

The soft request echoed between them, warbling in the silence. Dr. Lecter watched as she looked up slowly, her eyes glazed over. He didn't need to be close to know that her pupils were dilated. The drug had nearly taken complete effect. She sighed and her head went back as she shifted in the arm chair. "Why?" she asked, her words careful and full.

He went back to the palace, to her medical file. "I'd like to know."

She sniffed and sat back, languidly crossing her legs. "We spent the summer in East Hampton."

"Who's idea was that?"

"My husband's." She re-draped the shawl around her, shrinking into it. "He had an important case and his firm transferred him to their New York office for the summer."

He nodded, sitting perfectly still across from her. "Why not stay in the city?" he asked, his voice clipped and detached.

Her head shook slowly, a lock of hair curling behind her ear. "He thought we would be happier at the beach." Pause. "It was more like home than a hotel room on the Upper East Side."

"And, he stayed with you?" He watched her flinch, her eyes painfully turning away from his.

"No," she murmured. "He came out on the weekends."

"Ah."

The truth rose in her throat and Olivia found herself powerless to stop it. "I hated him that summer," she whispered.

The doctor nodded vaguely, his hands clasped gently in his lap. "I see."

She sat up straighter, the shawl slipping from her shoulders. "I barely saw him at all." Her face wrinkled distastefully, her eyes darkening as the old resentment floated to the surface. "It was just my daughter and I."

"How old was your daughter?" he asked, keeping up a pretense.

"Barely four."

"Hardly appropriate companionship for an adult."

She snorted, the breath catching in her throat as she looked up at him. "I read a novel a week that summer." Her face turned, her lips curling in a mean smirk. "One sickeningly romantic book after the other. I read until my eyes fell out, until-"

"Your head throbbed?" he suggested quietly as her eyes flickered over him. Her brow furrowed and her mouth set into a tight line. "You were treated for severe migraines throughout that summer, were you not?"

"I don't-" She stopped abruptly, absentmindedly playing with the fringe edging on her shawl. "Perhaps," she said finally.

"Not perhaps." He sat forward, just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough effort for Olivia to notice. His eyes bore into hers, the maroon flecks catching in the dim light. Her lips parted, quivering as he cocked his head. "Mrs. Richards?"

"Yes." Her answer was a hushed whisper, her face still. She nodded slowly and exhaled deeply. "I had horrible migraines all summer long."

He nodded, nudging her on as she pressed the sides of her head. "It was just that one summer?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes, reliving the pain. "I was nauseous for hours. I couldn't talk or even move. It was…_unbearable_." It would snap around her head like iron bands, invading every ounce of her being. The slightest noise or dimmest light would leave her in agony, writhing in misery. How quickly Caitlin, though only four, learned to tiptoe around the beach house and play quietly in her room. "I can't tell you how many triptan shots I got that summer."

"What did your doctor say was the trigger?"

"He didn't," she murmured, massaging her temples. "They thought it was maybe stress or something I ate, but-"

"Stress from what?" Her eyes opened slowly, the tremor in her hand undeniable. He leaned forward, his gaze intense as he asked firmly, "What happened before you went to East Hampton?"

Her chin quivered and she shuddered. "I-" The lone syllable died on her lips as a painful rock settled in her throat. She licked her lips anxiously, parting them to try again as he watched her, riveted. "I- I had a miscarriage."

"When, exactly?" His question was still firm, but underscored with a new measure of solemnity.

"A month before we left." She spoke slowly, as if she was detached from the conversation. Her gaze swept over him, vacant as she stared off into the distance.

"You went anyway."

Olivia nodded vaguely. "Gregory had his case."

"Where was he during your migraines?"

She lowered her eyes, fingering the diamond on her left hand. "In the city for most of them. Working."

He nodded, almost deferentially as he sat back, smoothing the crease in his pants. "That was the summer you hated him." A slow nod was his only answer and he asked, "Did he know?"

With a bitter chuckle, she turned back to him, leaning in like she had to share a secret. "What was the point?" She wiped her eyes, sighing angrily. "It wouldn't have changed anything."

"No?"

"Please," she scoffed, her eyes blazing, "having that argument would've made my migraines look like an East Hampton clambake." She exhaled deeply, crimson flushing in her neck. "Besides, he had his case to worry about."

"Yes, his all-important case." His tone was mocking, almost accusatory. "And, what of it?" he asked. "Did he win?"

"I don't remember."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, chastising her. "Yes, you do."

She looked over slowly, nearly forcing herself to make eye contact with him. Her mouth twitched, the blush in her neck creeping up to her cheeks. "No," she admitted finally, the word ripped from her mouth. She watched the doctor's eyes light up, amused at the long ago defeat. "It was one of the few cases he lost."

"Did that please you? That he lost that case?"

She looked down, crossing her legs. "Yes."

"The sweetness of revenge."

"Yes," she said looking up, her eyes dark.

"And you stayed married to him?"

"The hell I know is better than the hell I don't," she replied glumly, rubbing the top of her hand.

She missed Dr. Lecter's grin, his teeth small and feral. The resentment buried within Olivia was seemingly limitless, dark and ugly feelings that strangled her for too long.

It was time to uncork it.


	6. Dal Piu Remoto Esilio

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 6: "Dal Piu Remoto Esilio"

"How quickly can you get me a report on this doctor?"

Leopoldo Bardi glanced over, his expression blank. The silence danced between them, swelling in the cool interior of the Jaquar's backseat. "Not long," he said after a moment. "A day or two."

"Good." Gregory looked away, preferring the silence as he looked out the heavily tinted window. The scenery blurred past as the chauffeured car zipped up the Nueve de Julio Avenue, expertly dodging the midday traffic. The beginning of a headache began to lick behind his eyeballs, growing worse with each passing moment. And, it had a name.

The tension was evident in his jaw, his eyes flashing with a wave of anger. Dr. Galen wasn't even there this time to refuse him access to his wife. No, this time the infuriating denial came in the shortest of notes, handwritten in the doctor's elegant copperplate: _No visitors_.

Gregory tilted his head, his neck cracking as he inhaled sharply. It had been over two weeks since he admitted Olivia to the hospital. More than two long and frustrating weeks since that last visit with her at her bedside as she slept. A dark and unsettling feeling twisted in the pit of his stomach, clawing at his insides. A soft laugh echoed in the silence, a breathy whisper tickling his ear. _Darling, are you feeling…guilty?_

He closed his eyes as Olivia's question withered away, sending a pang of regret through his chest. When was the last time he allowed himself to feel regret? He was Gregory Richards. He didn't regret anything. He took what he wanted. He did what he wanted. To hell with everything.

Except her.

Bardi watched the other man's face in the window's reflection and cleared his throat. Gregory's head flew up, pained eyes sweeping the interior of the car. "I'll call you," he said slowly as the hotel's doorman reached for the car's door, "when I have something."

Gregory nodded, stepping out of the backseat. A strong breeze whipped across the stone driveway, stirring his hair. He leaned down, peering into the dark interior. "The sooner, the better," he said firmly. After a moment, Bardi nodded and he stepped back, the door closing with a resounding slam.

"_Well, well, well. If it isn't Gregory Richards_."

He turned, annoyance at the sound of the familiar voice replacing the suffocating feeling of regret. Ricardo Torres leaned against one of the columns flanking the hotel's entrance and grinned smugly. Gregory sighed, nodding to the doorman as he held open the lobby door. "Detective, what a surprise," he said, with no trace of the said emotion in his voice.

"Really?" He followed Gregory into the lobby, stealing an envious glance around at the opulent décor. "I was certain Caitlin would've mentioned me."

Gregory paused, a wicked smirk lighting up his face as he said, "Believe it or not, my daughter and I have matters of greater importance to discuss."

"Fair enough. Speaking of more important matters, I'll need to speak with Mrs. Richards."

"My wife has been admitted to a private hospital for treatment."

"Now see," Ricardo began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "that's just a little too convenient for me. You take your wife out of the country at the precise moment you're _both_ under suspicion of committing murder." He chuckled to himself and shook his head. "No, Richards, I don't buy it."

He stepped closer, his irritation threatening to boil over. "I don't particularly care what you do or don't buy. Del's murder is not my problem."

"No, it's mine…and the fact that two of my prime suspects fled country is an even bigger problem."

"Fled?" Gregory marveled. "Hardly. You'll find our papers filed with both the American embassy and the Argentine government. Anyone trying to evade the law wouldn't do that."

"You're not just anyone," he shot back, his voice ringing in the lobby. He lowered his eyes as his exclamation echoed off the marble around them. "I need to question your wife._ Immediately_."

Gregory shook his head, ignoring the frown on the detective's face. "Her doctor won't allow it."

"I'll need this doctor's name and the name of the hospital."

"By all means," he replied dryly, somewhat pleased that the bothersome detective would now be a thorn in Dr. Galen's side.

* * *

"How did you meet your husband?"

Dr. Lecter watched as Olivia's eyes came up, rising painstakingly as she considered his question. With the aid of the drugs and twice daily therapy sessions, the last several days had brought him intimately closer to her. To understand the subtle nuances that composed the essence of her was to become fluent in another language. Her blue eyes would narrow to icy slits when she was suspicious or feeling threatened. Her fingers would toy with her necklace and her teeth would catch the corner of her lip when she was nervous. And when the topic of her husband was brought up, she would turn away and cling to the wall.

Just as she was doing now.

He watched her sink back against the armchair, willing herself into the leather. The drugs may have removed her from herself, but they didn't take away her ability to speak. Even now, despite her dependence on the wall, he could see her wrestling with something. Her sapphire irises clouded over, her face wrinkled in frown. Her lips parted, her words coming slow and soft. "I first met…Gregory…at a cocktail party."

He nodded, watching carefully as her fingers twisted the necklace around her throat. A sliver of sunlight broke through the wooden shutters and caught on the pearls. For a moment, she froze, suspended in the glow radiating from around her neck. He stilled, committing the flash that lit up her face to the Memory Palace.

"That's all?"

She nodded, reluctantly meeting his eyes. "Yes," she whispered, transfixed by the red flecks in his eyes. They swirled in the silence, teasing and taunting her closer.

Dr. Lecter sighed, crossing his legs. "Come now, Mrs. Richards," he said, chastising her as he shook his head. "Don't diminish your determination."

"What?"

"Don't say 'what'," he replied, his crisp words cutting the tense air. "It is common, something you are not. Not anymore."

"Excuse me?" Her words snapped across the short distance between them, stinging him with her ire as her eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at?"

He paused, watching her for a long moment as he leaned forward and retreated to Olivia's suite of rooms in the Palace. His eyes moved over her, his gaze a critical sweep over her person as he reviewed the personal history she had shared with him over the last week and a half. "Like Thackeray's Rosalba," he began, "you were cursed with misfortune from the moment you were born. You grew up in the East End of London and raised in post-war squalor. You were the epitome of common, and you hated yourself for it. Your mother worked in Knightsbridge and that gave her a taste of the good life. She resented her demeaning job, but not as much as she resented coming home each night." Her eyes flickered and her head went back, as if she had been struck. "You weren't surprised when she left, were you?"

"No," she answered, her voice shaking over the lone syllable.

"But your father was, wasn't he?" He cocked his head as she nodded, her hand trembling as she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "He was a house painter by day and an alcoholic by night." He watched with interest as she faltered, diminishing before his very eyes. "You would fall asleep in school. You never had a full night's sleep at home because your father would stumble home from the pub at all hours, covered in paint stains and the stench of cheap liquor."

"So?"

The doctor sat up, pleased that he managed to rile her. "So," he mimicked, bringing fire to her eyes, "despite your father's failings, you loved him. You loved him because he was there."

The silence stretched in the short distance between them. Olivia looked up, wiping her shiny eyes. The tip of her nose glowed pink and her chest shuddered as she nodded. "Yes," she replied in a tortured whisper.

His voice softened, nearly comforting as he continued, "In spite of it all, or maybe because of it, you were bright enough in school to attract the grace of a wealthy benefactor's charity. You went away to boarding school and lost all traces of your East End upbringing, but your schoolmates never let you forget where you came from." A thought entered his mind and he paused until he had her attention. "You didn't speak up in your new classes because your accent gave you away."

She sat still, frozen in time with the remembered look of horror on her face. "Dr. Galen," she whispered, her voice barely there, "what is the point of this?"

"The point, Mrs. Richards," he began, finally seeing the wall crumble, "is that you went to considerable lengths to reinvent yourself. The Olivia at boarding school was different from the Olivia who went home for holiday. Slipping in and out of the Queen's English, desperate to fit in at school, but not fitting in when you came home. You made an entirely new life for yourself." Her face fell and he moved in, bringing everything full circle. "When was the last time you went back to the East End?"

"When my father died," she whispered, holding back a sob. "I was eighteen."

Dr. Lecter watched her curl into the corner of the armchair, resting her head in her hand. "Then you went to California and it was like history repeated itself, except now you had to work harder. It wasn't easy fitting into Gregory's circle, despite the cocktail parties you both frequented."

The color drained from her face, the flush of receding anger replaced by sickly pale. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting nervously from him to her lap and back again. _At last, a nerve_, he thought, waiting to see where she would take him.

Olivia felt his eyes on her, moving over every inch of her. Her skin crawled with disgust and self-loathing pooled in her stomach. Instantly, she was that girl again, the one who watched Gregory with endless fascination from the sidelines. The one who knew she could never compete with the wealthy debutantes that surrounded him. She gasped, remembering the way Del's breath tickled in her ear when he whispered his unholy plan to her. A high pitched shriek rang in her ears and she flinched, raising her hands slowly.

The doctor watched as she rocked forward, her hands covering her ears. It seemed there was more torment churning within her than he initially suspected. Her raspy breathing filled the silence, growing with intensity as she reached a point of near hysteria. "Mrs. Richards?" he asked softly. "Was he worth it?"

"Worth it?" she croaked, lowering her hands as a painful rock settled in her throat.

"Whatever you did to insert yourself into your husband's life." Devastation ripped across her soul, coming to fruition in the lone tear that worked its way down her cheek. "This husband that you hated the summer after your miscarriage, the one that put you in this place…was he worth it?"

A sob echoed in the silence, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "I wanted him," she said, shame clinging to her confession. "I wanted him _so_ much that I-"

His head tilted a fraction of an inch when she stopped suddenly, her eyes widening. "That you what?"

"Sold my soul to the devil." She looked up, meeting his eyes and saw nothing. No judgment, no pity. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, her head spinning. "What I did…" Her voice trailed away, willing the memory of that horrible night out from her mind.

"Mrs. Richards?" he asked, eager to follow her down this dimly lit path. He watched as she squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head violently and wrapped her arms around herself. "Mrs. Richards, what did you do?"

"No!" she gasped, her hands dragging down her arms. Thin lines of blood appeared on her flesh, weeping from the angry scratches her fingernails left. "No! I didn't want to do it! I didn't!" She looked up quickly, her eyes wild as she leaned closer to him. "I didn't know what else to do! And then, Del's plan-" Her hand flew out and reached for him, covering his hand warmly. "I didn't want to, but I did. And-, And, I _hate_ myself," she finally admitted, lowering her head in shame as hot tears spilled from her eyes.

Dr. Lecter's hand tingled as she gripped it, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into oblivion. With a painstaking ease, he used his free hand to ease her chin up. She was deathly pale, her eyes full. By dinner, they would be bloodshot and puffy, making this confession harder for her to forget. "You hate yourself," he corrected, "because it was worth it." She crumbled as the timbre of his voice consumed her. "You became Mrs. Gregory Richards, but it was a bittersweet victory."

She nodded sadly as a heavy sigh of regret caused her chest to painfully expand. "In the beginning," she whispered, letting her heavy eyes close, "I could pretend that it hadn't really happened. That it was a horrible nightmare and then I'd wake up, safe in Gregory's arms." Living in the sun of Gregory's attention was all she needed to convince herself that that night hadn't happened. When he noticed her, it was as if she began to live for the first time. Everywhere she turned, there he was, pulling her closer and pleading for her. She had never felt so wanted in her life. For the first six years that she spent with him, that intoxicating feeling never diminished.

"And now? Can you still pretend?"

Olivia opened her eyes, meeting his. "It's harder."

"Why?"

"Because," she snapped, yanking her hand back as the color returned to her face with a conquering triumph, "nothing turned out the way it was supposed to! I've been _exiled_, to Argentina of all places. Gregory is back home, telling our children God knows what as he moves his flavor of the month into our home!"

Dr. Lecter watched as she seethed, her foot flying up to angrily kick the coffee table between them. It appeared that the wall was crumbling. And, while her resentment didn't surprise him, it was a surprise to learn that she believed her Gregory had abandoned her.

And, what a carrot _that _would be to dangle in front of her husband.

* * *

"I'm so glad you could join us tonight, Gregory."

The sound of his name wrenched Gregory from his fog. He looked up, forcing a smile to match the one Camille Hammond sent him. She squeezed his arm softly, her eyes lowering discreetly. He glanced away, gently pulling his arm back as she continued, "It must be lonely for you, to be here without Olivia."

Allan cleared his throat, shaking his head as he put his arm through his wife's. "Camille," he sighed, begetting a reprimand.

"It's fine," Gregory interrupted, wishing the flute of champagne in his hand was something stronger. He tuned out both of the Hammonds as he looked at the glass, momentarily fascinated with the way the miniscule bubbles floated through the golden liquid. How often had Olivia made that very wish, wishing for more and always something stronger?

"-to know that we care." Camille touched his arm again, getting his attention as she continued, "Dr. Galen is an excellent therapist."

"So Allan tells me," he replied dryly as animated conversation in various tongues filled the salon. The lights flickered, politely indicating the opera would begin shortly. "From what I've seen though, I'm not quite convinced."

The trio ascended the grand staircase, Camille in the middle. "I understand your feelings, Gregory. Believe me, I do," Allan said with enough sincerity that Gregory found it difficult to doubt him. "Alexander's school of thought is different from mine, but given Olivia's history, I can't say that his course of treatment is completely out of line."

They parted from the crowd, following an eager usher into their private box. An illuminated stained glass ceiling cast glorious beams of light down on them, scattering throughout the opera house and catching on Camille's auburn hair. "I won't believe anything he says until I see Olivia for myself."

They stood back as Camille's eyes swept over the nearly full house. "I'll tell you what," Allan said, passing the usher a tip. "I'll look into Olivia's files, see what progress has been made. Would that set your mind at ease?"

Gregory thought of the doctor and the way he seemed almost pleased to refuse his request. "No. But, it's a start."

"I see Elena in their box," Camille announced, turning around to take her seat in the high-backed chair. For Gregory's sake, she leaned over and explained, "She's Dr. Galen's wife."

"Well, Gregory," Allan said over the sounds of the orchestra warming up, "it looks like we won't need to wait until tomorrow. I'll speak to Alexander during the first intermission."

Gregory followed Camille's gaze across the hall to a box nearly opposite theirs. A woman sat alone in it, the navy silk of her gown rivaling the diamond choker around her throat. Behind her, the thick curtains parted and the familiar form of Dr. Galen came into view. He continued to watch, bordering on voyeurism as the doctor's hand lingered on the woman's shoulder before intimately trailing the length of her arm.

As the lights flashed for the final time, the doctor looked up and across to the box where Gregory sat with the Hammonds. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as their eyes met for a long moment. An icy feeling slithered up his spine as the doctor nodded courteously before the house lights faded to black.

* * *

The heavy red curtain fell to the stage and a thunderous applause signaled the end of the opera's first act. Dr. Lecter stood as the roar of conversation replaced the dueling anguish of the baritone and soprano. He turned, taking the bound libretto from Clarice so she was free to take his arm.

"Did you ever think," she asked as they left the box, "that the real tragedy of the Foscari's was the curse of exile?"

The grand staircase came into view, the noise of the crowd swallowing her question. "How so?" he asked, slipping into Italian.

She followed suit, barely skipping a beat as she turned to him. "The doge can't save his son from the council. He is powerless." Her face grew animated, her blue eyes sparkling as she relieved the first act. "When he failed to act, he damned himself to an exile worse than his son's."

"There is loyalty to the state, but there is a far greater loyalty to one's self." She nodded in agreement as she accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. He watched, riveted, as she raised the crystal to her lips. Her hand floated down, the cuff of diamonds catching the light from the chandelier as she rested her palm on the railing.

"Dal piu remoto esilio," she said aloud, her eyebrow arched.

"_Reciting the libretto_?"

Dr. Lecter smirked as Camille Hammond led her husband and Gregory over to them. " 'From the remote exile'," he translated, catching Gregory's eye. "What crueler punishment is there than to be exiled by the person you love?" He ignored Gregory's flinch and turned back to the small group. As the two women pressed their cheeks together and Allan marveled at the coincidence of their meeting, he bit back a sigh of disgust. He remarked on, not for the first time, Allan's unfortunate similarities to the late Dr. Chilton. It didn't surprise him, therefore, that he was a personal friend of his patient's husband. He turned back to Gregory, nodding against his unbroken stare. "Mr. Richards," he began cordially, "may I intro-"

"Gregory, this is Alexander's wife, Elena," Camille interrupted, practically shoving the doctor's wife at him as she led the introductions.

Dr. Lecter detested her bubbly enthusiasm and suspected, perhaps correctly, that if their time in Buenos Aires came to an early end, it would be because of her irritating curiosity. He watched Clarice accept Gregory's hand and noticed the way the other man's eyes lingered on her face as he introduced himself. "Are you enjoying the opera, Mr. Richards?" he asked cordially.

Gregory's eyes flickered to Dr. Lecter and watched him for a long moment before he said, "Not particularly."

Clarice's head tilted thoughtfully, her lips pursed as she considered him. After a moment, she said softly, "Let me guess: you don't like opera…but your wife does, so you tolerate it."

Dr. Lecter and Camille turned slowly to Gregory, the doctor thoroughly enjoying the turn the evening had taken. Gregory chuckled ruefully, putting an end to the uncomfortable silence that followed Clarice's observation, as he said, "It was the least I could do for her."

"The very least?" she asked, her voice low in the frenzy of the intermission. The uncomfortable silence returned to settle amongst them as Gregory's eyes darkened.

Embarrassed, Camille cleared her throat and smoothed the black silk of her gown. "Look, Allan. There's Reynaldo and Jeanne!" In another heartbeat, she was gone, pulling her husband alongside her.

Dr. Lecter was barely able to contain his amusement, watching as the Hammonds fled. He turned back to Gregory, feigning listening as he heard Clarice apologize. If Gregory's eyes were weapons, he and Clarice would surely be dead before them. He watched the way the rage bubbled within the other man, even as he accepted her apology with a silent nod. He was on edge after only two weeks of being denied access to his wife, while she believed he had left her behind. The symphony of their tragedy rivaled Verdi's opera.

He cleared his throat, turning to Clarice. "May I speak with you privately, Mr. Richards?" Clarice nodded graciously, eyeing Gregory for a long moment before she turned away.

Gregory watched her leave, catching the beauty mark high on her cheek as she did. Her eyes flashed, brilliant beneath her platinum hair. A memory blazed forth, the vision of Olivia dancing before him and replacing the departing Hitchcockian blonde. The breath caught in his throat, watching as it was Olivia he saw turn away from him, disappearing into the crowd.

"Mr. Richards, are you alright?"

He inhaled sharply, his eyes falling on the doctor as he returned to himself. "Fine," he snapped, brushing down the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

"My nurse informed me that you requested to meet with me. _Again_," he added.

"Yes. A police officer from the United States is going to be paying you a visit."

"Is that so?" Dr. Lecter marveled, barely spiking his pulse.

"Ricardo Torres. He's going to ask to interview my wife and-"

"Regarding?"

Gregory's face turned as he replied, "My wife's _lack_ of knowledge about a crime that was committed."

"What type of crime?"

"A murder," he answered reluctantly.

"Who's murder?"

"Does it matter?"

"It could matter a great deal to your wife's treatment," Dr. Lecter replied, watching as his patient's husband grew uncomfortable.

"My business partner's."

The doctor smirked, raising his glass of champagne to his lips. "Is that so?" Annoyance washed across the husband's face in a steady wave, tickling the doctor's amusement. "Ah, I see," he said after a long beat of silence. "Your wife's relationship with your business partner was of a far more _personal_ nature."

The paralyzing rage that Gregory felt following the reading of Del's will returned, his fist cracking as he balled it. _The love of my life_, Del had drawled with a smirk at the camera. _My darlin', Olivia Richards_. His stomach churned, flashes before his eyes that taunted him. Del's hands on Olivia… His lips on her flesh… Her legs around his waist… "Del and my wife…," he snarled, forcing the image of them from his mind.

Dr. Lecter paused, mulling over the name that he heard for the second time that day. _What a shame I never had the opportunity to meet this Del_, he thought to himself, watching the husband struggle for control. He appeared to be the only person who could work both husband and wife into a frenzy. "About the detective-"

"My wife knows nothing about Del's murder."

"Regardless," the doctor delicately continued, "unless this Detective Torres provides a subpoena for Mrs. Richards to submit to questioning, I shall not permit him access to her."

Gregory nodded, seemingly satisfied with the knowledge that the detective would be nowhere near her. Which is why Dr. Lecter couldn't resist adding, "Though when your wife mentioned Del this afternoon, she said nothing of his…untimely passing." He watched Gregory's face turn, the stunned silence giving way to the familiar ire. With the politest of nods, he turned away silently, leaving Gregory to burn holes in his back.

* * *

_A/N: The title of this chapter was inspired by the aria, "Dal Piu Remoto Esilio", from Act I of the opera "I Due Foscari", composed by Giuseppe Verdi.  
_


	7. Sing for Absolution

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 7: "Sing for Absolution"

"_Dr. Galen, Detective Ricardo Torres from the United States is here to see you. He'd like to speak with you about Mrs. Richards." _

Dr. Lecter smiled into the phone's handset as he listened to his nurse. The woman's Spanish-infused English crackled over the line and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the soft inflections. They danced like musical notes throughout the Memory Palace. "Please ask him to wait a moment," he said before he hung up the phone.

He opened his eyes slowly, the maroon glowing in the morning shadows of his office. They wavered like a candle's flame, glowing with intensity. _So, the devoted husband was right_, he thought to himself. However, though his pulse barely spiked, the fact that an American law enforcement official was in his outer office impressed upon him. Hannibal Lecter was still on the FBI's _Most Wanted List _and was still taught as case study to the green students at Quantico.

Standing slowly, he glanced around his office. As always, what struck him about the space was its professional blandness. Other than the painting of Florence at sunset that Olivia so admired, there was nothing of his there. Even the degrees and accreditations that hung so prominently on the wall were admirable forgeries. He knew this moment would come, when his past would cross with his carefully constructed present.

He was ready for it. Ready now.

Suddenly, Clarice's old voice echoed in the silence. The hard accent correctly suggested her formative years were spent in rural West Virginia and so intrigued him when it was thick glass that separated them instead of silk nightclothes. Instantly, the smell of the basement cell came back to him and his nostrils flared, taking in the lingering odor of damp stone and urine. Clarice, who with a puff of _L'Air du Temps_ and her fresh-scrubbed face, breezed into the desolation and instantly understood him. Wasn't it only fair that he show her the same kind of clarity?

Her voice swirled in the silence, the drug-induced confession taking shape around him. _"Whimsy," _she sighed, her thick accent more pronounced as the tranquilizer seeped through her blood stream. _"That's what got you caught. I followed your tastes and waited for your whimsy to strike." _

Clarice was the best agent to pursue him, excepting the unfortunate Will Graham. Her insight proved invaluable to him in the weeks after their flight from the United States. It would take _years_ before any substandard agent at the FBI would reach the level of analysis she achieved.

Whimsy she warned him of.

Whimsy he would be mindful of.

He crossed the quiet office, his hand dancing against the doorknob for a brief moment before he opened the door. "Detective Torres?" he said, looking out into the reception area. The American detective stood and Dr. Lecter sized him up immediately, correctly gauging the officer was young and inexperienced. He could be dealt with swiftly so that Olivia's next session would start on time. "I'm Dr. Alexander Galen. I understand you would like to speak with me about my patient."

* * *

"Vodka."

"What about it?"

"Would you like some? A drink?"

Olivia blinked, the doctor's clipped voice washing over her. An odd sensation fluttered in her stomach as she tilted her head, contemplating his question. She licked her lips, imagining the feel of ice-cold vodka passing over them. However, the whisper from the depths of her soul, the one that begged for glass upon glass, was silent. Her hand twitched as she shook her head, eventually meeting the doctor's dark eyes.

"No?" Dr. Lecter leaned back, feigning interest. "Have you wondered why?"

She shrugged, blinking her heavy eyes as she thought about the doctor's question. Until his question, the alcohol that had been her second spouse barely entered her mind. A wicked thought entered her mind and she smirked, muttering, "Your drugs must be better than the vodka."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he steepled his fingers. "I doubt that is true, Mrs. Richards." She shrugged again, drawing her wrap around her shoulders as she shivered. "Then again, the alcohol was never your real problem."

Her eyes narrowed, detecting a shift in his tone. She struggled against the murkiness swirling in her brain and asked, "What do you mean?"

He ignored her question and threw back one of his own. "What made you start drinking?"

"Gregory," she murmured. "It was just a comfort when I knew he was with other women." Her eyes fell to her lap, a pout on her lips as she whispered, "When he stopped loving me."

"Not just," he said softly, his gaze growing in intensity. As she looked up slowly, her eyes clouded over and he said, "Tell me about Del."

"Del?" she stuttered. "What about him?"

"He was your husband's friend…and, apparently, instrumental in you meeting him." She shook her head, her face paling. "Your husband told me he was also your lover."

"I'm sure he did," she said, her mind reeling. "I'm sure he also pointed out Del was one of many." The doctor was silent, watching as her face regained color at an alarming rate. "Del and I…I knew Gregory would _never_ forgive me for him."

"Is that why you think he sent you here?"

"Of course it is!" she exploded, her throat flushing a deep shade of red. "When Gregory found out about us…oh, it was the angriest I'd ever seen him."

"Are you surprised?" Her eyes narrowed as she breathed hard, wringing her hands into oblivion. "What did you think he would do when he found out you were in love with his closest friend?"

"Love?" she scoffed after a long moment, her eyes incredulous. "No, I didn't _love_ Del."

"No?"

She toyed with her necklace, twisting the pearls between her fingers. "_No_. He was-"

"A substitute." Dr. Lecter watched the shame cloud her eyes, growing like storm clouds until she slowly nodded. "You used him…the way he used you."

Olivia continued to nod, her lips drawn to a thin line as she frowned. "Yes," she admitted in a quiet whisper, the shawl slipping from her shoulder. "He was…a means to an end."

"And, a beginning, Mrs. Richards." He sat quietly, waiting until the errant strains of thought came together in her mind. After several moments, she shivered and shook her head. "He was the man who introduced you to your husband."

The silence crashed through Dr. Lecter's office like a train as Olivia looked away, the corner of her lip caught anxiously between her teeth. He watched her face turn, the memory taking her away as she collapsed into the corner of the armchair. "Del was calculating," she whispered. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers into the temple of her head. "He never did anything for free."

"Tell me."

"Do you believe in karma?" she asked softly, ignoring his request. "That the things you do, the _crimes_ you commit, can come back to you three times worse?"

"No," he finally said. "That suggests the presence of a higher power and I have yet to see proof of him or her in my life." He watched her nod, digesting his response. "What we do lives and dies with us, but it doesn't dictate revenge by the universe." He watched her eyes flicker as she listened, though she eventually shook her head. "You disagree?"

"My life _makes_ me disagree." She inhaled sharply and looked up, her blue irises unsteady but clear. A fountain of truth bubbled up from within her as she saw him watching her with vague interest.

"What happened to make you think this?"

"I- I lost my…baby." He nodded, watching the heartbreak overtake her just as if the trauma had happened that day instead of decades earlier. "My child died and m- my marriage fell apart." She looked up carefully, unable to conceal the devastation as tears welled in her eyes. Swallowing back a sob, her face contorted as she struggled to say, "The awful thing I did was for _nothing_."

Dr. Lecter leaned forward slightly as she wiped her eyes, sighing like a broken woman. "What crime, Mrs. Richards?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. "What did you do for Del?"

His question surrounded her softly and she surrendered to his unending patience and watchful gaze. "I helped him…kidnap a baby." The confession tumbled forth, ripping away from the innermost compartment of her soul. She inhaled sharply as loathing rose within her, her hands trembling as she pulled her shawl around her shoulders. "The child of my friend. One of my _closest_ friends," she scoffed, the tip of her nose red.

"And so, _that_ is what it took for Del to introduce you to your future husband." The simple truth rested between them, glittering like jewels in the sunlight. She nodded, swallowing past the rock in her throat. "How long," he began carefully, watching her quietly unravel, "after you lost your own child did you begin to think it was karmic revenge for what you did to your friend and her baby?"

She gulped back a sob and, though tears pooled in her eyes, she didn't cry. "Soon after," she admitted, picking at the threads of her shawl. "When I began to pack away the nursery…when my husband stopped looking at me." She nodded to herself, remembering the way the realization washed over nearly two decades ago. "I took Elaine's son, so karma took mine."

"Does your husband know what you did?" As expected, he watched Olivia slowly shake her head as she curled back into the corner of the armchair. "Perhaps you should tell him."

"What for?" she murmured, her breath shaky. "Are you married, Dr. Galen?"

"No."

"But there is someone?" As he nodded, she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and pursed her lips. "If it was her, would you want to know the ugly truth?"

"Above all, Mrs. Richards, I believe in honesty. As cold and painful as it can be."

"Could you forgive her?" she asked desperately. "Could you still love her, knowing the truth about who she is and what she did?"

He sat for a moment, mulling over her questions. "I would have nothing to forgive her for," he finally said, watching as something that looked like relief flickered in her eyes. "The truth would not change how I felt about her."

"You say that," she muttered, stabbing her thigh with her index finger. "But, you aren't Gregory."

"No. No, I'm not. Perhaps if you speak the truth to Gregory though, you would finally be on even ground with him. After all, don't you know everything about him?" She nodded slowly, letting the doctor's words sink in. "He deserves the chance to know the truth about you."

She sighed deeply, honesty rising from within her as she began, "In the beginning, I could pretend it hadn't happened. When Gregory looked at me- no, when Gregory wanted me and would undress me with his eyes, I could pretend it had been an awful dream. I felt a perverse pleasure that I could work him into this passionate frenzy and to know that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him. And, later, when we had Caitlin, our world was perfect. Our lives were complete. It seemed that everything had…"

"Worked out?" he suggested. She nodded and he continued, "But, Mrs. Richards, you have to admit that it didn't help you find it."

"F- find what?"

"Absolution," he said as if it was the most obvious response in the world. She paled and her chin quivered as she listened to him explain, "You didn't find absolution from your crime by marrying Gregory, in being his wife or the mother of his children. And, you certainly didn't find absolution at the bottom of a liquor bottle. No matter how desperately you looked for it."

Olivia nodded quietly, her lips parted as she absorbed his devastating observation. This was a truth she only ever uttered before when she was too drunk to comprehend its severity. "I'll never find it, will I?" she asked softly. Even though she knew the truth, and had known it for many years, there was something painful about the way the doctor shook his head. "No matter what," she finally whispered.

"You've punished yourself for nearly a quarter of a century."

"Don't you think I deserve it?"

"It isn't for me to say. But you punishing yourself won't change anything that happened. Will it?"

She exhaled, suddenly exhausted. "No. It won't."

Dr. Lecter sat back, immensely satisfied that Olivia had finally had the breakthrough they had been building towards. He watched her quietly as she pressed her palms to her cheeks, sighing deeply. She seemed different somehow, he realized as she clasped her hands in her lap. Her complexion regained some color, her cheeks flushed to a healthy rose-colored hue. Her breathing was slowing to normal and her body stopped trembling.

She seemed at peace.

She seemed free.

* * *

Gregory shoved his meal away, the flatware clattering against the china plate. He stood abruptly and pushed the room service cart aside. The gourmet meal was wasted on him, passing through his lips and mouth with barely any notice. The bottle of Bordeaux, however, caught his attention and he reached for the neck of it. A moment later, the garnet-colored wine bubbled into his glass and he sipped it deeply.

He wandered over to the window, leaning against the glass. The lights of Buenos Aires glittered in the dark night like diamonds. The life of the city contrasted sharply with the quiet solitude of his hotel suite. As he drank the wine, the truth hummed through his body like an electrical current. He missed Olivia. He missed his wife.

Daily calls from Caitlin and Sean only compounded the longing for her. They missed her too. Despite everything that had happened over the years, Olivia had always been there. They may not have appreciated it, but day or night, drunk, hungover or sober, she was always home with them. And now, she was being kept away, held hostage by the medical depravity of her psychiatrist. The last two weeks were interminable, each day lasting longer than the previous one.

The ringing of the telephone cut through the silence and he turned in surprise, looking over his shoulder. With a glance at his watch, he saw that it was too early for it to be the children. Like clockwork, they would call every night just before midnight, asking yet again if he had seen their mother. Then, he would have the long hours of the night ahead of him, replaying their soft voices in his head, Caitlin's quivering anguish and Sean's quiet concern. Grimacing, he reached for the phone, swirling the glass of wine in his other hand. "Yes?"

"_Mr. Richards, this is Dr. Galen. I-"_

"Is Olivia alright?"

Silence stretched across the line and Gregory listened intently, some might even say desperately. _"Yes, of course." _

He faltered, gripping the handset. "Then, what-"

"_Mr. Richards, I feel it's now appropriate for your wife to receive visitors." _He froze, his heart stilling in his chest as the doctor continued to speak. _"I would like to arrange for you to see her tomorrow. Is that convenient?"_

Absurd laughter bubbled up in his throat as his pulse began to race. "Of course, it's convenient," he snapped. "I'll be there first thing in the morning."

"_Noon would be preferable. Your wife takes a late breakfast and I would rather her routine not be disrupted unnecessarily." _

"Fine. Noon."

"_Excellent. I'll leave word with the receptionist." _

Gregory hung up the phone as a satisfied grin stretched across his face. "Tomorrow," he whispered, raising the glass in a mock-toast.

* * *

_A/N: The title of this chapter was inspired by Muse's song, "Sing for Absolution" (written by Matt Bellamy). PS: If you're still reading this story, thanks for sticking with it. I know the updates have been less than regular. _


	8. Vena Amoris

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 8: "Vena Amoris"

"I'm here to see my wife." Gregory waited as the nurse stood and gestured for him to follow her. The hospital was still, hushed conversations filling the almost deserted hallways. Large windows lined the hall, flooding the space with bright golden sunshine. He had been up since the sun rose, anxiously pacing the hotel suite until it was time to leave for the hospital. He couldn't sleep. Visions of Olivia kept flickering behind his eyes. Was she awake? Was she alright? Was she pale? Was she sleeping? Was she better? Was she angry with him?

The nurse stopped and extended her hand to the partially open door. With a polite smile, she turned and left, leaving him to face the tantalizing door on his own. Carefully, he moved towards it, reaching for the doorknob as a tremor went through his hand. Just as his fingers skimmed the knob, his wife's voice disturbed the silence. _"I'm not Gregory's wife," _he heard her say and he froze. She was upset, anger licking at the syllables of his name.

He leaned near to the gap, his ears straining as he listened to the doctor ask, _"What are you then?"_

"_His project," _he heard her spit out and he could almost picture the flash of her eyes, the petulant way she crossed her arms over her chest. _"Something he breaks over and over and over so he can fix it." _

He frowned. Behind the anger was a reservoir of hurt and palpable sadness that oozed through the wood door. It danced around him, filling the silence until it pressed against his chest. She made him the fixer in their marriage. Succumbing to the bottle and other men, year after year. Someone had to be the strong one. Someone had to be the guiding force for the children.

But, anger always gives way to clarity.

From the depths of his soul, a quiet voice whispered, _You didn't make it easy on her. _He flinched, listening to his conscience. _You were controlling and you bulldozed your way through any obstacle, including her. _

"_You can only break something so many times before it's broken for good." _

"_Are you broken for good, Mrs. Richards?"_

There was a click and sudden silence took over. He looked up, surprised as the door opened. The doctor stood quietly and he looked past him, searching the office. "Where's Olivia?" he asked, not seeing her on the sofa as he expected.

Dr. Lecter cocked his head and stepped aside, letting his patient's husband pass. He watched, his lit up with amusement as Gregory stood in the center of the office and rotated. "Mr. Richards-"

"I just _heard_ her."

He gestured to his desk as he went to it, reaching for the small cassette tape player. "You heard a _recording_," he explained, pleased the timing had worked out. He watched the husband's face fall as he continued, "One of your wife's first sessions. I was reviewing it in order to add some notes to her file."

Gregory nodded slowly, his hands balled into tight fists. She wasn't here. "I was under the impression that I would be visiting her today."

"Yes, of course. I simply wanted to speak with you first." He folded his hands, watching a multitude of emotions run across the other man's face. Annoyance, fear, hope. It was something to behold. "I wanted you to know that your suspicions were correct. Detective Torres came yesterday."

"Did he-"

"He was not permitted to see Mrs. Richards. However, I believe he will attempt to return with a court order. The international implications are…_delicate_."

"My wife knows nothing."

"So you keep saying. But, what do _you_ believe? Do you _believe_ she killed Del?"

Gregory froze, meeting the doctor's inquisitive gaze. A strange feeling danced in his stomach and after a long moment, he finally and truthfully whispered, "No." The doctor nodded and he couldn't help but feel that he seemed almost satisfied with his response.

"Nor do I." He turned to the painting, watching the color as he continued softly, "If she had killed Del, she would not be able to cover it up. Her emotions would give her away. She feels things far too deeply." Turning back slowly, he saw the blank expression on Gregory's face. "But, surely you knew that about your wife."

It was true. Olivia could never hide what she was feeling. It was how he knew she was pregnant with Caitlin before she told him. That night, her eyes danced merrily, her hands fluttering to him, her skin glowing. He realized the truth in an instant just by looking at her. Later, the alcohol gave her the willpower to cover that naked emotion and she became hard, shielding her fractured heart.

Dr. Lecter smirked and said, "That's why you resent her, is it not?" Gregory's eyes flew to him, tension oozing from his clenched jaw. "She is able to feel all that you would repress."

"I don't resent-"

"Do you think it makes her weak?" The husband turned away, saying nothing. But his posture said it all. "Unlike you, she embraces her emotions and doesn't hide them."

"It's what I first noticed about her," he murmured and Dr. Lecter leaned forward, struggling to hear the quiet confession. "She was everything I wasn't, but wanted to be. Carefree. Full of life. Happy. Fearless." He wiped his brow, remembering the lure of her dizzying energy and zest. The brilliant smile she lavished on him. The way her hand felt within his right before he asked her to marry him. "She…saved me."

Dr. Lecter cleared his throat, pleased by the unexpected confession. It was unfortunate there wasn't more time to spare. The spouses together would make for the most interesting session. "It would behoove you to tell her that," he suggested quietly as he walked past the husband to open the door to the balcony. "You'll find Mrs. Richards at the north end. I'm very pleased with the progress she has made these last two weeks."

"When can she be released?"

"Soon." Gregory waited for clarification, but quickly realized none would be forthcoming. He turned away, straightening the lapels of his blazer as he walked out into the sunshine. Dr. Lecter watched him leave and closed the door, turning back to his office.

* * *

Blinking, Gregory glanced around, left and then right as the doctor closed the door behind him. There, at the far end of the stone balcony, was a figure he'd know anywhere. His feet rooted to the ground, he stood and simply watched her.

Her back was to him as she stood at the railing overlooking the garden. She stood tall, her shoulders squared. Her hair was down, hanging long and straight. As he gazed at her, it was the broken sound of her recording that consumed him. Slowly, his feet moved, his heart pounding as he neared her. Did she know he was here? Did she even care? Did she want him at all?

Olivia's eyes barely flickered as she heard the approaching footsteps. She knew it was him. A jolt of recognition went through her as she remembered the endless nights of lying in bed alone, waiting for the sound of his feet of the stairs. The sound of his breathing as he moved through the darkened bedroom, while she lay quietly, hoping he would realize she was waiting for him. The way the mattress shifted as he got into the bed, pulling up the sheets as he retreated to the silence of his half of the bed.

With a sigh, she waited. Her head was heavy and she blinked, feeling the gravitational pull into Gregory's orbit. But, she was calm, her heart steady as she saw him out of the corner of her eye. She raised her chin slightly as his gaze consumed her, conquering every ounce. He said nothing nor touched her. He simply watched her and she listened to his stilted intake of breath. "The river is so large, but quiet," she finally said, mildly annoyed by his silence. Surely, he had _something_ to say. He was Gregory. He _always_ had something to say.

His brow furrowed, hearing her voice for the first time in weeks. It was unlike the sorrow-filled one he heard on the recording. His eyes moved her, her face free of make-up as she finally turned to him. Her blue eyes deepened in color, fine lines of age revealed in the pure sunlight. The breeze stirred her hair and he was reminded of a memory of her from decades ago. In an instant, he knew. She was sober. She was calm. She was herself again, the Olivia he fell in love with nearly a quarter of a century ago.

"Olivia-"

She cocked her head, watching him intently. "You look tired," she said softly. "Have you not been sleeping well?" Reluctantly, he shook his head, lost in the shades and tone of his wife's voice. "You never could sleep on planes."

"Plane? I haven't been on a plane in weeks." He watched her eyes flicker before she turned away, rubbing her bare arms. "I've been here the whole time. Hasn't your doctor told you?" Olivia was quiet, trying to find the pieces swirling within the fog of her mind as he continued, "I came every day. The children have been calling too."

A chord wavered and she shuddered, closing her eyes. "Caitlin…Sean," she whispered.

Slowly, he reached out and covered his hand with hers. As his fingers tightened around hers, he leaned in and whispered, "They've missed you, Liv. So have I."

_Liv_. That one syllable swelled between them and she opened her eyes, sighing deeply. "I thought you left me here," she admitted and disgust rose within him. He hadn't given her any reason to think he wouldn't do just that.

"No," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "I-"

"I'm glad you didn't." As he froze, she looked down and watched him stroke her ring finger. The diamond of her engagement ring caught the sunlight and she sighed, whispering, "Vena amoris."

Following her gaze, he smiled and remembered the way her hand trembled when he put the ring on her for the first time. Slowly and lightly, his index finger traced a line from her ring finger and up her bare arm, following the curve of her shoulder to dance across her collarbone to rest in the center of her chest over her heart. "The vein of love," he translated softly as her eyes slowly turned up to his.

"Why did you stay?" She waited patiently, leaning against the stone as exhaustion crept over her. His fingertip warmed her chest as he stepped closer, his eyes falling.

"Because," he finally began, his voice tight, "I'm lost without you." She was still, listening quietly as he continued, "I haven't slept in days. You weren't there next to me."

"You never noticed I was there before."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, desperate to catch her gaze before she turned away again.

"I wasn't there either," she said thoughtfully as she reached up to take his hand. His palm was warm as she held his hand within both of hers. "Not really." Gently, she turned away and began walking back to the salon. A small smile curled her lips as she heard Gregory following, his presence looming behind her like a breathing hurricane.

* * *

Ricardo lay across the bed, his pen scratching across the form. His mind was racing faster than he could write and he frowned, scratching out his newest sentence. He sat up, tossing the paper aside. Something was there, he realized. None of it made sense. Gregory Richards stashing his wife away now? After all these years? He flinched as his conversation with Caitlin floated through his head, the young woman's voice broken. _"Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. My parents had nothing to do with Del's murder. My father took my mother away to get her better."_

He shook his head. A child wants to think the best of her parents, even if those parents are Gregory and Olivia Richards. But, there was more to it. There _had_ to be. His eyes narrowed as he replayed his conversation with the doctor the previous day. His surprise at realizing the doctor was some kind of European and not an Argentinean, like he first thought. His unease when he shook the doctor's hand, the man's eyes burning into him.

There was more to it.

He turned back to the incomplete report, struggling to explain the thoughts swimming in his mind. Not of it was logical. Instead of sense, he was dealing with errant thoughts that seemed to have no linear connection between them. But way back, in the darkest corner of his mind, was a tingling whisper that he insisted he was missing _something_.

With a sigh, he rolled onto his back and tucked his arms beneath his head. His shabby hotel room certainly wasn't Gregory's suite at The Four Seasons, but at least it was clean. The pale yellow paint was peeling at the corners, giving way to fine cracks that spread like a spider's web across the ceiling. He gazed up blindly, the lines of broken paint blurring together. Was it all a waste?

He swallowed hard, retracing his steps. Olivia's doctor was no help, though something about him was unsettling. How Gregory Richards picked him, out of all the possible doctors, as the one to treat his wife-

The telephone rang, jarring in the silence. He reached for the handset, sighing a greeting. The voice on the other end of the phone got his attention and he sat up, pressing it to his ear. "Chief Harris, I wasn't expecting-"

"_Torres, pack your bags. You're coming back to Sunset Beach."_

He sighed. "Chief, I promise you, I'm close on this. I've met with Olivia's doctor and-"

"_Torres, Olivia Richards is out of the investigation. So is her husband."_

"Chief, come on! This is our chance to nail Gregory Richards! He's covering up something by dragging his wife down here! I-"

"_We have a confession."_

"What?"

"_We caught the murder. She confessed."_

"She?" There was a noticeable pause and he frowned. "Chief, is it Annie Douglas?"

"_No. Torres, Elaine Stevens confessed to killing Del Douglas."_

He stood slowly and turned in disbelief to the night table. A picture of Paula was propped against the lamp and he watched it for a long moment. "Elaine? No, there has to be a mistake."

"_Unfortunately, there is no mistake. Ms. Stevens gave a detailed confession. You're no longer needed in Buenos Aires. Pack your bags and get to the airport. We're arranging for you to be on the evening flight." _

Nodding, he ended the call and slowly returned the phone to the base. Elaine. Elaine killed Del. A shiver raced up his spine as he thought of Paula. It didn't make sense. Then again, nothing about this case did.

He reached for his unfinished report on Gregory and Olivia's escape to Buenos Aires. At the end were his notes from his meeting with Olivia's doctor. He reached for the sheaf papers and reluctantly tore it in half. As he did, he remembered the way the strange doctor's eyes twinkled and he shivered. Suddenly, it didn't matter.

It was over.

* * *

Gregory followed Olivia down the quiet hallway, recognizing this wing of the hospital. He had seen it the night they arrived in Argentina, when he stood next to his wife's bedside, filled with regret. Now, his hand was still tingling from the way she held it, leading him from the balcony and through the halls. Dimly, he wondered if the doctor knew they slipped away. A moment later, he realized he didn't care as he turned his attention back to his wife.

Olivia's hair swung against her back, tantalizingly free. The first time he saw her, that was how she looked to him. She was free with crystallized perfection. The doctor was partially right: Olivia felt every emotion he tried to deny. But, he couldn't resent her. Not when it was one of the things that attracted him to her in the first place. When he met her, he was a young man who, on the cusp of his professional dreams, realized he was desperately lonely. Then, like a breath of fresh air, Olivia Blake swept into his life and captured his heart, never letting it go.

She stopped in front of a closed door and turned, watching him with calm eyes. He inched closer and she moved back, the wood door catching her. Their eyes locked as he stood a breath away. Slowly, his hand came up, grazing her hip. He felt her tremble and he was reminded yet again of the swirling vortex of emotion his wife could be. He never needed any excuse to lose himself in her arms, her bed or her heart.

"I wanted you back," he whispers and she jutted her chin. He leaned in, his lips against her jaw as he inhaled. "The way you were…before…"

_When Gregory looked at me- no, when Gregory wanted me and would undress me with his eyes, I could pretend it had been an awful dream. _

Her fingers twitched as their chests met, his voice echoing in the quiet hallway. Gently, her hands came up and pressed into his waist. "Before Del," she suggested quietly and she felt him stiffen. "Before the other men. Before the alcohol. Before we lost the baby."

He nodded, cupping her face. _Before I helped Del kidnap a child_, she continued silently as she closed her eyes. A shiver went through her as the distance between them diminished. She felt his breath on her neck a moment before she felt his lips. His hands danced down her arms as his mouth moved up her throat and over her jaw.

Olivia reached out, fumbling to turn the doorknob. The door swung open and they stumbled into her room. He kicked the door shut and pushed her back against the wood, watching her for a long moment. She saw the glint in his eyes for a delicious moment before he leaned in, their mouths meeting.

_I felt a perverse pleasure that I could work him into this passionate frenzy and to know that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him. _

He felt her arms go around his neck, her fingers dancing through his hair. She cupped his head, drawing him in as he clung to her hips. His fingers toyed with the waist of her pants, wanting nothing between him and her flesh.

* * *

The rich ornaments of the harpsichord wavered in the quiet office, the melody taking on a life of it's own. Dr. Lecter let the darkness and shadows become him, the setting sun glowing through the wood shutters. His eyes were half-closed, succumbing to the sarabande's three-quarter time as it drifted from the speakers. It was peace and beauty, invading every sense with it's simple genius.

A soft knock at the door disturbed the music, but the doctor barely flinched. A moment later, he heard it open. "_Perdoneme_, Doctor Galen?"

"_Si?"_ He listened to the nurse quietly explain, in a lyrical Spanish that blended magnificently with the Bach, that Gregory Richards just left the hospital. With a wicked smirk, he thought of the hours that passed between the reunited spouses and opened his eyes fully. "Before he left, you explained the visitation schedule I feel is appropriate?"

"_Si_, Doctor Galen. _Senor_ Richards understands he can see his wife every afternoon. He seemed…_contento_."

He looked into the shadows, the rhythm filling his chest. "Good. Very good. _Gracias_, Ana. _Buenos noches_." He heard her leave quietly, the door closing behind her. Slowly, he sat up and turned back to his desk. Opening the top drawer, he reached in for the small vials. The tranquilizer sat on the right, the key that opened the Pandora's Box of Olivia's psyche. As it turned out, there was only one key that was necessary.

The second vial was of a far more personal nature. It had taken some research, but only minimal trial-and-error to determine the correct dosage. Luckily. Though he had been momentarily concerned about the fertility drug having an adverse reaction to the tranquilizer, Olivia seemed to come through brilliantly.

With a smile that bordered on feral, a sight that would terrify most, the doctor leaned back in his chair as the aria came alive.

* * *

_A/N: It just __wouldn't__ be a Lecter story if there wasn't an appearance by the aria of the Goldberg Variations (composed by JS Bach)._


	9. Vide Cor Meum

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter 9: "Vide Cor Meum"

_Two Weeks Later _

Olivia followed the orderly down the hall, the delicate silk scarf fluttering around her neck. The heels of her sandals clicked on the polished floor, her eyes blinking as they turned onto the sun-filled landing. As the orderly disappeared down the wide staircase with her suitcase, she went to the railing. Bright light flooded through the windows, illuminating the large foyer that served as the hospital's lobby. She looked down, smiling when she saw Gregory nod to the orderly and gesture to the door.

"_Good afternoon, Mrs. Richards."_

She glanced over her shoulder as the doctor appeared next to her. "Hello, Dr. Galen."

"I see you are ready to leave our establishment." Dr. Lecter's eyes moved over his patient and he noticed fullness in her face that wasn't there before. With a half-smile, he watched her nod and glance down to the first floor for a brief moment. "Your husband has been quite anxious to take you home."

Her eyes softened and she tilted her head. "Yes," she whispered, clasping her hands.

"But, you knew that, didn't you?" He waited as she nodded and a slight blush colored her cheeks when he continued, "Just as you surely know he's still…_enraptured_ by you." She looked down, a tiny smile on her lips. "And, you know what you need to tell him?"

Her head came up slowly and she nodded. "Yes," she admitted.

Gently, Dr. Lecter leaned in close, his lips dangerously close to her ear. He inhaled, taking in a lingering wisp of her perfume, and sealed it in the Memory Palace before he closed the door on Olivia's wing. "You'll be fine, Mrs. Richards," he said softly, his nuanced voice clicking in the hush of silence. "Do let me know how you're getting on in a year or so."

"I will," she promised, barely flinching as his hand grazed hers with a feather touch. Their eyes met for a long moment, his maroon irises swirling. "Thank you, Doctor."

Slowly, he stepped away from her, gesturing to the stairs. "Goodbye, Mrs. Richards." She passed him with a smile, her head held high as she continued to the steps. He moved forward, looking over the railing as she descended the staircase. She reached out, taking her husband's hand as she stepped onto the first floor. He watched them cross the foyer, his patient content in her husband's embrace. They were nearly at the door when she stopped abruptly and turned.

Olivia felt the doctor's eyes on her and she inhaled, turning around. She heard Gregory, who suddenly sounded far away, asking if she was alright. She looked up to the second floor landing, the doctor standing motionless in the center. Slowly, she held up her hand, her wrist rotating as she gently waved goodbye.

Dr. Lecter nodded slightly and exhaled when she turned away. She and her husband went through the door, disappearing into the glare of the South American sunshine. When the door banged shut behind them, he turned away, the dying strain of a hum on his lips.

* * *

Gregory sat quietly in the leather armchair, content to embrace the shadows of the hotel suite's bedroom. A soft light bathed the space, allowing him to follow his wife with his eyes as she moved from the bed to the bathroom. They were spending one final night in Buenos Aires before they left for home in the morning.

His hand covered his mouth, covering the smirk he wore as he watched Olivia ready for bed. She had forgone her own nightgown and instead slipped into his pajama top. The dark red silk swallowed her thin frame, barely making it to mid-thigh. Quietly, she leaned against the doorjamb, running a brush through her hair. He sat up, clearing his throat as he tore his eyes away from the counterpoint of the silk and the creamy flesh of her thigh. "Thank you for leaving me something to sleep in," he said.

She glanced over, lowering the paddle brush from her dark hair. He gestured to the matching bottoms, discarded at the foot of the bed and she smiled. "Well, I did think about taking them and leaving you the shirt, but they were too big to stay on."

He nodded, gripping the leather arms of the chair as she traversed the space between them. "And, we couldn't have you sleeping in nothing, could we?" he asked, their gazes locked together as she lowered herself to his lap. She shook her head, curling against him as he wrapped his arms around her. Her arms rested on his chest, her long hair spilling around them. Gently, he reached up and rubbed a lock of hair between his fingers. "I like your hair like this."

She let herself smile, feeling his hand snake around to cup her rear. "Really?" she whispered. "I thought it was too long." His mouth set as he shook his head, feeling her fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt. One at a time, they popped out and she pushed the shirt apart. "So, I shouldn't cut it?"

Her fingertips brushed his chest, her touch electric. He drew her closer as she splayed her palm on his bare chest, covering his heart. "It's just hair," he pointed out. "It'll grow back."

With a chuckle beneath her breath, she leaned up and cupped his chin. "That sounded like a reluctant ambivalence to me."

He shrugged, drawing the silence around them. "You had long hair like this when I met you. It's a nice memory."

She sighed as she stretched against him, resting her head on her hand as her elbow pressed into him. "All those years ago…"

Gregory watched as she sat up, brushing her hair over one shoulder. "What's wrong?" As she moved to turn away, he reached out and locked his arms around her waist. She stiffened as he rested his chin on her shoulder, his lips next to her ear as he whispered, "Tell me." He watched her lower her head as she exhaled deeply.

"I…" She looked up, meeting his concerned eyes for a long moment before she rested her hand over his. "I don't know how."

He nodded, his arms snug around her as she leaned into him. "Start at the beginning?" he suggested quietly.

"This," she finally began, "isn't a happy story…and it involves Del." She heard him inhale sharply and she looked up in time to see the pain flash in his eyes. With a frown, her hand dropped to his knee and she squeezed it gently. "Dr. Galen said I needed to tell you this, that you needed to know everything about me."

"I thought I already did."

Reluctantly, she shook her head. "There's one thing," she murmured, fixated as his fingers threaded through hers. "I did something, something incredibly _stupid_, and…" He waited patiently, letting her gather the strength to utter, "I'm afraid of what you will say when I tell you."

"Liv," he said quietly, squeezing their entwined hands, "I love you. I- I didn't tell you that enough over the years, but I do. More than life." She looked up, anxiety wrinkling her face and dulling her blue eyes. "This last month has made me realize that nothing is more important than you and our children. Nothing will change that."

Olivia frowned, wanting nothing more than to throw her arms around him and confess the whole ugly secret. The doctor's metallic voice echoed in the silence and she shivered, remembering his words. _Above all, Mrs. Richards, I believe in honesty. As cold and painful as it can be._ She shivered and after swallowing hard, she said, "It's about Del, a child and how you and I met."

It was his turn to frown as he looked up at her. "How _we_ met? We met at Bette's. She just divorced What's-His-Name, the doctor, and she threw a party to celebrate." She nodded glumly and something in him froze when he felt her tremble. "Go on," he said, resting his free hand on her thigh as she squeezed his other one.

"Del introduced us," she whispered, keeping him at the periphery of her vision. It was easier not looking directly at him. She feared losing her nerve, only there was no way to go back. Not now. "He only agreed to introduce us after I helped- after I did _something _for him."

Gregory listened numbly as she explained about her part in the kidnapping, the money and Del's introduction. Her voice was quiet, but steady as she recited the awful tale. The color came back to her face, blood flushing in her throat and cheeks as she turned to him. Waiting, hope dancing in her eyes. He cleared his throat, his palm burning into the flesh of her thigh as he said, "Sweetheart, I knew you were poor. That didn't matter to me."

She shook her head sadly. "It didn't matter _then_. When you find out, we were in love," she whispered as he reached up and cupped her face. "But, if you knew the truth at the beginning-"

"I wanted you from the first moment I saw you," he interrupted, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. She scoffed and her eyes narrowed disbelievingly as he continued, "You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and you wouldn't give me the time of day. You avoided me for months. When I saw you in Bette's bedroom the night Del introduced us, I couldn't believe you said more than two words to me."

A sad smile graced her lips and she turned into his hand, nuzzling his palm. "It had to be that way until I could be the type of woman you needed to marry."

He sighed and tilted her face up, looking deep into her eyes. "I would've chosen you, no matter what." Her face crumbled and he hugged her close, letting her curl back against him. "Do you hate me for what I did?" he heard her ask and he frowned, kissing the top of her head. "No," he whispered into her hair.

She looked up, tears shining in her eyes. "Really?" He nodded and she sobbed, relief flooding through her. She let him draw her back in, his hand rubbing a soothing circle on her back. Her tense muscles released and she slumped against him, spent. He shifted forward and wrapped his arm beneath her legs as he stood. Three steps later and he was lowering her to the bed, laying her on the cool sheets. She watched as he pulled the covers over her and began to strip off his own clothes.

A moment later, wearing the matching pajama bottoms, he crawled in next to her. He turned off the lamp, golden light from the bulb replaced by silver light from the moon. She curled into his side, her arm flung over his chest. "Will you help Elaine?" he heard her murmur. "You know she was justified in killing Del."

"Liv, I just got you back. A case like that will demand all my time and-"

She leaned up, watching him with wide eyes. "Please, Darling…for me? This is the only way I can help her."

After a long moment, he sighed and nodded. "Alright. When we get home, I'll offer to represent Elaine…for _you_."

She nodded and pressed herself into his side. "Thank you, Darling." She closed her heavy eyes, letting her husband's breathing lull her to sleep for the first time in a month. And, for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, she went to sleep with a clear conscience.

* * *

_The Next Night_

Gregory wrapped his arm around Olivia as they walked up the driveway, leaving Tim to deal with their luggage. The lights of One Ocean Avenue shone brilliantly and Olivia inhaled deeply, taking in the salty air. A cool breeze danced around them, bringing the sound of the surf to her ears. "I'm sure they're awake," Gregory said and she nodded, glancing over with a tired smile. A day of traveling had drained them and he rubbed her arm before he reached for the front door. "Caitlin was insistent."

She stepped inside, momentarily dizzy as an overwhelming sense of familiarity washed over her. It was her living room, exactly as she remembered it. He held her arm, steadying her as she faltered. "You alright?" he asked, worried as she leaned against him.

She nodded weakly, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "Yes. Extremely tired, but happy to be home."

His smile was tinged with concern as he kissed the side of her head before he moved to the base of the stairs. "Caitlin? Sean? We're home!" He held out his hand to his wife as Tim staggered in with the luggage, depositing it all neatly by the door. She leaned against him, still nauseous as they heard the sound of feet thundering down the stairs. "I told you they missed you," he whispered in her ear as Caitlin turned the corner.

"Mom!" Caitlin exclaimed, rushing over and throwing her arms around her. Sean followed close behind and ducked between them, wrapping his arms around them both. Laughing through the tears, Olivia hugged her children close, breathing in the scent of them. She kissed their heads, remembering when they were two blonde babies instead of two blonde adults. "We missed you!" her daughter exclaimed.

"I missed you too," she sighed, cupping their faces and looking at each of them for a long moment, reacquainting herself. "So very much." She turned to her son, who simply grinned and hugged her tight. "But, I'm home now and…I'm better."

"Really?" Caitlin asked, though she turned to her father and reached for his hand. He nodded, squeezing her hand in reply. "Daddy said your doctor was practically holding you hostage!"

She glanced at Gregory and shook her head. "No, no…Dr. Galen helped me." For the children's benefit, she smiled and explained, "It was tough treatment, but it was for the best."

"Your mother's home," he said, placing his hands on Olivia's shoulders, his chest against her back, "and everything's going to be fine." She leaned against him tiredly and he repeated softly, "Just fine."

* * *

_One Year Later_

The uniformed maid stepped onto the balcony, holding a silver tray. A flowering jacaranda tree stood tall, filtering the morning sunshine through its branches and scattering it on the stone. Her employer looked over, his dark eyes fixed on her as she neared the table. "_Senor_," she said softly, holding the tray down to him so he could take the stack of mail. "_El correo_."

"_Gracias_," Dr. Lecter murmured, sorting through the pile.

Clarice glanced up from the morning edition of the International Herald Tribune, her blonde hair piled high on her head. "Our tickets for _Salome_ should be in there," she said softly, aimlessly turning the page.

He nodded, passing her the thick envelope from the opera company. "Ninety minutes of debauchery and eroticism," he murmured, turning back to the mail.

She smirked, using her knife to open the envelope. "Don't forget the severed head of John the Baptist, Darling."

"Ah, slaughtered Christians. How entertaining." A gust of wind rustled through the trees, the purple flowers floating on the air around them. The doctor reached the envelope at the bottom, his finger touching the international postage. His eyes were drawn to the return address, written in neat penmanship. He reached for the knife and sliced through the envelope as he sat back.

It was a thin envelope and he reached inside, removing the lone item. He looked down at the glossy 5x7, holding it delicately at the corners. Olivia smiled up at the camera, her husband's arm around her as he sat next to her. Her two grown children sat on either side of them, wearing grins as wide as their parents. But, it was the bundle in Olivia's arms that held his attention. An infant, with hair as dark as her mother's, was swaddled in a pale pink and white striped blanket.

Clarice watched him, her eyebrow arched as he sat riveted to the photo. "What is that?"

"A photo," he said simply, turning his gaze back to his former patient. The combination of her glowing complexion and the new baby in her arms told him all he needed to know about how Olivia was getting on. Still, he turned over the photo, not surprised to see the handwritten message on the back.

_Alexandra Richards.  
__Thank you._

"From who?"

Dr. Lecter looked up and passed her the photo. "From a patient."

"The woman from last year," she murmured before she returned the photo to him. "Why did she send it?"

He reached for his coffee, inhaling it for a moment before he took a deep sip. "She was kind enough to let me know the result of my experiment."

"Oh? Did she realize she was the subject?"

He looked back at Olivia's message of thanks. "Possibly. But, ultimately she benefited from it."

She sat back, drawing the lapels of her silk robe together. "Well, she certainly looks happy. Congratulations on the success." He shrugged dismissively, seemingly uninterested. She smirked, knowing that sheer boredom drove him back to practicing. He thrived on the thrill of games and what was more of a game than psychiatry? It didn't surprise her that he retired shortly after this woman left the hospital. "What was your experiment about?"

"Therapy," he replied. "It does not cure everything."

"Rather puts your profession out then."

He looks back at the photo once more before he tucks it back into the envelope. "Only for this one patient."

She looks at him carefully for a long moment, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "So, what did she need?"

Reaching out, he tapped the photo with his finger. "To need and be needed in equal measure," he said softly.

"Clarity?" she suggested quietly.

"Precisely," he said, picking up the photo. His eyes moved over the rise of Olivia's cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, the way she leaned into her husband. "Vide cor meum," Dr. Lecter murmured, content with the knowledge that his patient's heart was safe in the embrace of her husband and children.

The End.


End file.
